Anarchism and Radical Feminism part 4

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UNAPOLOGETIC WRITINGS
ON THE CONTINUING
WAR AGAINST WOMEN

Andrea Dworkin

AUTHOR OF INTERCOURSE

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Nonfiction

Woman Hating

Our Blood: Prophecies and Discourses on Sexual Politics
Pornography: Men Possessing Women
Right-wing Women
Intercourse

Letters From a War Zone: Writings 1976-1987
Pornography and Civil Rights ( with Catharine A. MacKinnon)

Fiction

the new womans broken heart: short stories

Ice and Fire
Mercy

LIFE AND DEATH

ANDREA DWORKIN

THE FREE PRESS

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Copyright © 1997 by Andrea Dworkin
All rights reserved
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of Simon & Schuster Inc.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-In-Publication Data

Dworkin, Andrea.

Life and Death : unapologetic writing on the continuing war
Against women / Andrea Dworkin.
p. cm.

Articles originally published 1987-1995.

Includes index.

ISBN: 0-7432-3626-2
1. Women — Crimes against. 1.

3. Feminist theory. I. Title.
HV6250.4W6D86 1997

362.88*082 — dc20

Sex discrimination against women.

96-38335

CIP

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PUBLICATION DATA

ORIGINS
My Life as a Writer

First published as “Andrea Dworkin (1946- )” in Contemporary Authors Autobiography Se-
ries, Volume 21, March 1995 (Gale Research Inc.). Copyright © 1995 by Andrea Dworkin.

EMERGENCIES

In Memory of Nicole Brown Simpson

First published in the Los Angeles Ttmeszs three essays: “Trapped in a Pattern of Pain Where
No One Can Help” (June 26, 1994), “In Nicole Brown Simpsons Words” (January 29,
1995), and “Domestic Violence: Trying to Flee” (October 8, 1995). Copyright © 1994,
1995, 1997 by Andrea Dworkin.

Living in Terror, Pain : Being a Battered Wife

First published in the Los Angeles Times, March 12, 1989. Copyright © 1989 by Andrea
Dworkin.

The Third Rape

First published in the Los Angeles Times, April 28, 1991. Copyright © 1991 by Andrea
Dworkin.

Gary Hart and Post-Pornography Politics

First published in an altered version as “The Right to Know How Women Are Humiliated”
in New York Newsday, March 13, 1987. Copyright © 1987 by Andrea Dworkin.

A Government of Men, Not Laws, Not Women

First published as “Political Callousness on Violence Toward Women” in the Los Angeles
Times, May 14, 1989. Copyright © 1989 by Andrea Dworkin.

Portrait of a New Puritan — and a New Slaver

First published in an abridged version as a letter in The New York Times Book Review, May 3,
1992. Copyright © 1992, 1997 by Andrea Dworkin.

Free Expression in Serbian Rape/Death Camps

First published as “The Real Pornography of a Brutal War Against Women” in the Los Ange¬
les Times, September 5, 1993. Copyright © 1993 by Andrea Dworkin.

Beaver Talks

First published as a new introduction to Pornography: Men Possessing Women (New York:
Plume, 1989). Copyright © 1989 by Andrea Dworkin.

RESISTANCE

Mass Murder in Montrial: The Sexual Politics of Killing Women

Speech at the University de Montreal, December 7, 1990, organized by The Day After Com¬
mittee to mourn the mass murder of fourteen women students on December 6, 1 989, at the

licole Polytech niquc, the university’s engineering school. First published as “War Against
Women: The Sexual Politics of the Montreal Murders” in The Madison Edge , December 17,
1991 . Copyright © 1990, 1991, 1997 by Andrea Dworkin.

Terror, Torture, and Resistance

Keynote speech at the Canadian Mental Health Association’s “Women and Mental Health
Conference — Women in a Violent Society,” Banff, Alberta, May 9, 1991. First published in
Canadian Studies/ Les Cahiers de la Femme, Volume 12, No. 1, fall 1991. Copyright © 1991,
1 997 by Andrea Dworkin.

Pornography Happens

Lecture at the “Speech, Equality, and Harm Conference” at the University of Chicago Law
School, March 6, 1993. First published in slighdy expanded form in The Price We Pay: The Case
Against Racist Speech, Hate Propaganda, and Pornography, edited by Laura Lcderer and Richard
Delgado (New York: Hill & Wang, 1995). Copyright © 1993, 1995 by Andrea Dworkin.

Prostitution and Male Supremacy

Speech at the Michigan Journal of Gender & Law symposium entided “Prostitution: From
Academia to Activism” at the University of Michigan Law School, October 31, 1992. First
published in slightly altered form in the Michigan Journal of Gender & Law, Volume 1 ,
1993. Copyright © 1992, 1993 by Andrea Dworkin.

Freedom Now: Ending Violence Against Women

Keynote speech for the Texas Council on Family Violence Annual Conference, “Rediscover
Liberation,” October 28, 1992, in Austin, Texas. All participants were workers in the field
of wife-battery. Copyright © 1992, 1997 by Andrea Dworkin.

Remember, Resist , Do Not Comply

Speech at the Massey College Fifth Walter Gordon Forum, Toronto, Ontario, in a symposium
on “The Future of Feminism,” April 2, 1995. First published by Massey College in the Uni¬
versity of Toronto, May 2, 1995. Copyright © 1995, 1996 by Andrea Dworkin.

CONFRONTATIONS
Race, Sex, and Speech in Amerika

First published in slightly altered form as “Thomas Jefferson, Sally Hemings, and the Real
Bill of Rights,” in On the Issues, fall 1995. Copyright © 1995 by Andrea Dworkin.

Women in the Public Domain: Sexual Harassment and Date Rape

Introduction to Sexual Harassment: Women Speak Out, edited by Amber Coverdale Sumrall
and Dena Taylor (Freedom, California: The Crossing Press, 1992). Copyright © 1992 by
Andrea Dworkin.

Israel: Whose Country Is It Anyway?

First published in slightly altered form in Ms., September/October 1990. Copyright ©
1990, 1997 by Andrea Dworkin.

The U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum: Is Memory Male ?

First published as “The Unremembered: Searching for Women at the Holocaust Memorial
Museum” in Ms., November/ December 1994. Copyright © 1994 by Andrea Dworkin.

— FOR NIKKI CRAFT —

IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER, MARK, 1 949- 1 992

In analyzing womens thinking about what constitutes care and what connection
means, I noted womens difficulty in including themselves among the people for
whom they considered it moral to care. The inclusion of self is genuinely prob¬
lematic not only for women but also for society in general. Self-inclusion on the
part of women challenges the conventional understanding of feminine goodness
by severing the link between care and self-sacrifice; in addition, the inclusion of
women challenges the interpretive categories of the Western tradition, calling
into question descriptions of human/nature and holding up to scrutiny the

• r « 1 • 1 * 55 «1 51 « 1* 55 J a If* 55

meaning or relationship, love, morality, and sell.

— Carol Gilligan, Mapping the Moral Domain

Let there be no mention of the war. If it were not for those few who could not
repress their experiences, the victims themselves would have denied the horror.

— Aharon Appelfeld, Beyond Despair

CONTENTS

Preface xiii

ORIGINS
My Life as a Writer 3

EMERGENCIES

In Memory of Nicole Brown Simpson 41
Living in Terror, Pain: Being a Battered Wife 5 1

The Third Rape 55

Gary Hart and Post- Pornography Politics 60
A Government of Men, Not Laws, Not Women 63
Portrait of a New Puritan — and a New Slaver 67

Free Expression in Serbian Rape/Death Camps 73

Beaver Talks 77

RESISTANCE

Mass Murder in Montreal: The Sexual Politics of Killing Women 105

Terror, Torture, and Resistance 115
Pornography Happens 1 26
Prostitution and Male Supremacy 1 39
Freedom Now: Ending Violence Against Women 1 52
Remember, Resist, Do Not Comply 169

CONFRONTATIONS

Race, Sex, and Speech in Amerika 179
Women in the Public Domain: Sexual Harassment and Date Rape 196

Israel: Whose Country Is It Anyway? 217
The U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum: Is Memory Male? 240

Acknowledgments 251
Index 253

PREFACE

I have spent the last twenty-five years as a writer, and during most of it
I rejected first-person nonfiction writing by contemporary women.
Even though I was riveted by, and learned much from, speak-outs, Take
Back the Night rallies, and talks in which the point was first-person ex¬
perience, in literature I regarded this as the back of the bus, for women
of all colors. No woman had an “I” that swept up populations as Whit-
mans did, such that he could embrace them; nor did women have
Baudelaires cruel but beautiful “I” — so eloquent, so ruthless — which
made Gods world spoil in front of you, become ruined and rotting yet
entirely new. The womans “I” was trivial — “anecdotal,” as the
guardians of white-male writing put it. The “I” of a woman said, “My
husband likes his shirts ironed this way; my teenage son is sulking but I
remember him when he was three; I am the second daughter of my
mother s fourth husband; and on Sunday, after making love, my hus¬
band and I had croissants.” The “I” of a woman always had to be
charming; the prose, feminine and without aggression; the manner of
writing, gracious or sweet or unctuous. There had better be no hint of
Whitmans grandiosity or Baudelaires bitterness. Even if a girl could
write “Spleen,” it could only be experienced as an appalling breach of

XIV PREFACE

civility. Women’s writings — like women — are judged by the pretty sur¬
face. There is no place for the roiling heart.

Yet as I organized this, my third collection of writings — after Our
Blood (1976) and Letters From a War Zone (1988) — I saw with some
shock that my “I” is everywhere in these essays and speeches, referring
directly and explicitly to my own life. The experiences I have chosen to
write about are not polite — they include being raped, battered, and
prostituted — and I have not been polite about them; although 1 hope
that in my telling I have honored intellect, veracity, and language. Like
many male writers from a previous time, I have used portions of my life
for evidence or emphasis or simply because that’s what happened, which
must matter. Some autobiographical facts and events are reiterated, like
a leitmotif pointing to a pattern, a theme with variations. In each con¬
text the events are refracted from a slightly different angle, with more
detail or deeper knowledge or another pitch of feeling.

I love life, I love writing, I love reading — and these writings are about
injustice, which I hate. They are a rude exploration of it, especially its
impact on women. This is the “I” forbidden to women, the “1” con¬
cerned less with ironing (and I have ironed a lot) than with battery. It is
an “I” indifferent to the passions of popular culture but repelled by this
culture’s insistent romanticization of violence against women. This is
the forbidden “I” that names the crimes committed against women by
men and seeks redress: the “I” male culture has abhorred. There is noth¬
ing trivial about it.

In the first section, “Origins,” I tell how I became a writer and why,
and I say what I think my work is worth and why. I expect this autobi¬
ographical self-appraisal may be more accurate than that of critics,
friend or foe. Mostly, of course, critics have been foes, too prejudiced
against the reason I write to read with clarity or understanding, let alone
to appreciate the writing itself. I’m the expert on me: not Freud, not
Playboy, not The Nation , not The National Review \

In the next section, “Emergencies,” I write about crises, many of
which stirred public feeling to a fever pitch — the abuse of Nicole Brown

PREFACE xv

Simpson, for instance, or Hedda Nussbaum, or the genocidal rape of
women and girls by Serbian fascists in Bosnia-Herzegovina. Here, too, I
write about contemporary abuses of women that have been kept hid¬
den — the attempted murder of Pamela Small by then House Speaker
Jim Wright s top aide, John Mack, himself a formidable power and pro¬
tected by both the political establishment and the media until Wright’s
fall on ethics charges. I suggest that the privacy of then presidential
hopeful Gary Hart should not have been invaded by the press — but that
John Macks should have been. I suggest that the values and perceptions
of a younger generation of male journalists have been significantly
formed by their use of pornography such that they are now mostly
voyeurs, not heroes of democracy. And I report the stories of truly
anonymous, unimportant, uncared-for women — those used in pornog¬
raphy, those on whom pornography was used in sexual abuse or battery
or to push them into prostitution. “Emergencies” is about the day-to-
day lives of ordinary women, their lives degraded or destroyed by ex¬
ploitation or violence.

“Resistance” is a selection of six speeches, each taking a public stand
out loud in a public place, often in the face of some tragedy or atroc¬
ity — for instance, the mass murders in Montreal of fourteen female en¬
gineering students by a man whose motives were both political and
woman hating. Here the terrorism of male violence against women is re¬
ported as being far from anomalous; and the dynamics of aggression
and violence in pornography, prostitution, battery, and marital rape are
made palpable. The last speech in this section — delivered in Toronto as
part of an endowed, public policy lecture series at Massey College
(founded by the writer Robertson Davies, who attended) — offers a
summary of what we have achieved and makes clear where we have
failed. The “we” in these speeches is feminists, which many people in
their hearts consider themselves to be.

Three speeches were given in Canada — in Montreal, Quebec;
Banff, Alberta; and Toronto, Ontario — and three in the United
States — Chicago, Illinois; Ann Arbor, Michigan; and Austin, Texas.

XVl LIFE AND DEATH

This geography should give the lie to the notion — reported in dozens
if not hundreds of newspapers — that my colleague Catharine A.
MacKinnon and I are not welcome by feminists in Canada because of
the Canadian Supreme Courts Butler decision, which held that
pornography violated womens equality rights. Canadian feminists in¬
vited me to speak; the speeches were received with enthusiasm and a
deep commitment to making womens lives better. At least one was de¬
veloped by Canadian feminists into a video project. By the same mea¬
sure, the notion also fails that my feminist ideas are extreme or mar¬
ginal: my work has been profoundly appreciated in the geographical
heartland of the United States. Participants in the Texas event, for ex¬
ample, came from all over the state. “Resistance” represents the grass¬
roots womens movement, made up of ordinary, hard-working, com¬
mitted women and men everywhere who want an end to injustice. I
have never been alone in this. I know that for a fact because of the
audiences. They and their love, respect, and desire — to know and un¬
derstand and act — are what can never come through to the reader of
these pages. Especially they are women, and they want relief from male
violence.

Still on the life-and-death terrain of violence against women but now
going deeper, searching for its roots, is “Confrontations,” a series of es¬
says on why and how the perception of women as subhuman evolves
such that violence and exploitation become habits rather than crimes.
Here I examine womens exclusion from human status and womens po¬
litical subordination in the United States, in the public domain in most
Western countries, in the relatively young state of Israel, in the sparkling
new Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C. Here I also
challenge womens exclusion from the right of speech as such — not sim¬
ply from personal expression, from art or culture, but from creating the
political premises we take for granted. In each essay, the silence or invis¬
ibility of womens experience and its meaning are shown as distorting,
undermining, or destroying the political and moral integrity of a na¬
tion, an institution, a right, or an idea.

PREFACE xvii

It is my hope that because of the political work of feminists over the
last quarter of a century, these writings may at last be read and taken se¬
riously. I am asking men who come to these pages to walk through the
looking glass. And I am asking women to break the mirror. Once we all
clean up the broken glass — no easy task — we will have a radical equality
of rights and liberty.

— Brooklyn. New York

May 1996

ORIGINS

MY LIFE AS A WRITER

I come from Camden, New Jersey, a cold, hard, corrupt city, and —
now having been plundered by politicians, some of whom are in
jail — also destitute. I remember being happy there.

First my parents and I lived on Princess Avenue, which I don’t re*
member; then, with my younger brother, Mark, at my true home, 1527
Greenwood Avenue. I made a child’s vow that I would always remember
the exact address so I could go back, and I have kept that vow through
decades of dislocation, poverty, and hard struggle. I was ten when we
moved to the suburbs, which I experienced as being kidnapped by aliens
and taken to a penal colony. I never forgave my parents or God, and my
heart stayed with the brick row houses on Greenwood Avenue. I loved
the stoops, the games in the street, my friends, and I hated leaving.

I took the story of the three little pigs to heart and was glad that I
lived in a brick house. My big, bad wolf was the nuclear bomb that Rus¬
sia was going to drop on us. I learned this at Parkside School from the
first grade on, along with reading and writing. A bell would ring or a
siren would sound and we had to hide under our desks. We were taught
to cower and wait quietly, without moving, for a gruesome death, while
the teacher, of course, stood at the head of the class or policed the aisles
for elbows or legs that extended past the protection of the tiny desks.

3

4 LITE AND DEATH

And what would happen to her when the bomb came? Never, I believe,
has a generation of children been so relentlessly terrorized by adults who
were so obviously and stupidly lying. Eventually, the dullest of us picked
up on it; and I was far from the dullest.

I remember trying to understand what the bomb was and how it
would come and why. I d see blinding light and heat and fire; and when
my brain got tired of seeing burning humans, empty cities, burning ce¬
ment, I would console myself with the story of the three little pigs. I was
safe because my house was brick.

It is that feeling of my brain meeting the world around me that I re¬
member most about being a child. The feeling was almost physical, as if I
could feel my brain being stretched inside my head. I could feel my brain
reaching for the world. I knew my brain did more than think. It could see
and imagine and maybe even create something new or beautiful, if I was
lucky and brave. I always wanted engagement, not abstract knowledge.

I loved the world and living and I loved being immersed in sensation.
I did not like boundaries or want distance from what was around me. I
saw adults as gatekeepers who stood between me and the world. I hated
their evasions, rules, lies, petty tyrannies. I wanted to be honest and feel
everything and take everything on. I didn’t want to be careful and nar¬
row the way they were. I thought a person could survive anything, ex¬
cept maybe famine and war, or drought and war. When I learned about
Auschwitz my idea of the unbearable became more specific, more in¬
formed, sober and personal.

I began to think about survival very early, because we were Jewish on
the heels of the Holocaust; because of the ubiquitous presence of those
Russian bombs; and also because my mother was ill with heart disease.
She had scarlet fever when she was a child, and in her family, big and
poor, both parents immigrants, one did not call the doctor for a girl.
The scarlet fever turned into rheumatic fever, which injured her heart
long before there was open-heart surgery. She had many heart failures,
maybe heart attacks, and at least one stroke before I became officially
adolescent. She would be short of breath, maybe fall down; then she’d
be gone, to a hospital, but Mark and I never really had any way of

MY LIFE AS A WRITER 5

knowing if she had died yet. We would be farmed out to relatives, sepa¬
rated most of the time. This could happen day or night, while doing
homework or sleeping. We’d be told to get dressed fast because Mother
was very sick and we couldn’t stay here now; and Dad was at work or at
the hospital and he would explain later: be quiet, don’t ask questions,
cooperate. We never knew anything we could count on. I usually didn’t
even know where Mark was. Or she might be sick, at home but in bed
and off-limits, maybe dying. Sometimes I would be allowed to sit on
her bed for a little while and hold her hand.

She was Sylvia, and I loved her madly when I was a child, which she
never believed, not even by the time she did die, in 1991 at the age of
seventy-six. I did stop loving her when I was older and exhausted by her
repudiations of me; but it would not be wrong to say that as a child 1
was in love with her, infatuated. I remember loving her long, dark hair,
and the smell of coffee, which she drank perpetually when she was able
to walk around, and the smoke from her cigarettes. Maybe it was my
child’s fear of death, or her sudden, brutal absences, that made me adore
her without ever flinching when she pushed me away. I wanted to be
around her, and I would have been her slave had she been generous
enough to accept me. She was my first great romance.

But I was the wrong child for my mother to have had. She preferred
dull obedience to my blazing adoration. She valued conformity and
never even recognized the brazen emotional ploys of a child to hold on
to her. My emotions were too extravagant for her own more literal sen¬
sibility. One could follow her around like a lovesick puppy, but if the
puppy peed on the floor, she thought its intention was to spite her. She
saw malice in almost anything I said or did. When I would be stretching
my brain in curiosity — and dancing my brain in front of her to dazzle
her — she thought it was defiance. When I asked her questions, which
was a way for me to be engaged with her, she considered the questions
proof of rebellion, a wayward delinquency, maybe even treason to her
authority. I could never excite her or make myself understood or even
comfort her. I do remember her reading to me sometimes at night when
I couldn’t sleep, and I remember feeling very happy.

6 LI FE AND DEATH

She often told me that she loved me but did not like me. I came to
believe that whatever she meant by love was too remote, too cold, too
abstract or formulaic to have anything to do with me as an individual,
as I was. She said that a mother always loved her child; and since this
was an important rule in her world, she probably followed it. I never
understood what she meant even when I was fully grown up — which
feelings this generic and involuntary love might include. But to the ex¬
tent that she knew me, there was no doubt that she did not like me, and
also that I could not be the child that she would find likable. I wasn't, I
couldn’t be, and I didn’t want to be. She understood only that I didn’t
want to be.

I had to be independent, of course. I had to learn to live without her
or without anyone special. I had to learn to live from minute to minute.
I had to learn to be on my own, emotionally alone, physically alone. I
had to learn to take care of myself and sometimes my brother and some¬
times even her. I never knew what would happen next, or if she’d be sick
or dying, or where I’d be sleeping at night. I had to get strong and grow
up. I’d try to understand and I’d ask God how He could make her so
sick. Somehow, in stretching my brain to beat back the terror, I’d assert
my own desire to live, to be, to know, to become. I had many a Socratic
dialogue in my head before I ever read one. I had a huge inner life, not so
strange, I think, for a child, or for a child who would become a writer.
But the inner lives of children were not an acknowledged reality in those
days, in the fifties, before I was ten and we moved to the suburbs, a place
of sterility and desolation where no one had an inner life ever.

I have idyllic memories of childhood in Camden: my brother, my fa¬
ther, and me having tickling fights, wrestling, on the living room floor;
me in my cowgirl suit practicing my fast draw so I could be an
Amerikan hero; a tiny sandbox on our front lawn where all the children
played, boys and girls together, our Eden until a certain year when the
girls had to wear tops — I may have been five but I remember screaming
and crying in an inarticulate outrage. We girls played with dolls on the
stoops, washed their hair, set it, combed it out, dressed the dolls, tried to
make stories of glamour in which they stood for us. I remember being

MY LIFE AS A WRITER 7

humiliated by some girl I didn’t like for not washing my doll’s hair
right — I think the doll was probably drowning. Later, my grandfather
married her mother across the street, and I had to be nice to her. I was
happier when we moved from dolls to canasta, gin rummy, poker, and
strip poker. The children on the street developed a collective secret life,
a half dozen games of sex and dominance that we played, half in front of
our mothers’ eyes, half in a conspiracy of hiding. And we played Red
Rover and Giant Steps, appropriating the whole block from traffic. And
there was always ball, in formal games, or alone to pass the time, against
brick walls, against the cement stoops. I liked the sex-and-dominance
games, which could be overtly sadomasochistic, because I liked the risk
and the intensity; and I liked ordinary games like hide-and-seek. I loved
the cement, the alleys, the wires and telephone poles, the parked cars
that provided sanctuary from the adults, a kind of metallic barrier
against their eyes and ears; and I loved the communal life of us, the chil¬
dren, half Lord of the Flies , half a prelude to Marjorie Morningstar. To
this day, my idea of a good time is to sit on a city stoop amid a profusion
of people and noise as dark is coming on.

I would say that it was Sylvia who started fighting with me when I
was an exuberant little pup and still in love with her. But eventually I
started fighting back. She experienced my inner life as a reproach. She
thought I was arrogant and especially hated that I valued, my own
thoughts. When I kept what I was thinking to myself, she thought I was
plotting against her. When I told her what I thought, she said I was de¬
fiant and some species of bad: evil, nasty, rotten. She often accused me
of thinking I was smarter than she. I probably was, though I didn’t
know it; but it wasn’t my fault. I was the child, she the adult, but neither
of us understood that.

Our fights were awful and I don’t doubt that, then as now, I fought to
win. I may have been around eight when I dug in; and we were antago¬
nists. I may have been a little older. Of course, I still wanted her to take
me back and love me, but each crisis made that harder. Because of the
wrenching separations, the pressing necessity of taking care of myself or
Mark or her, the loneliness of living with relatives who didn’t particularly

8 LIFE AND DEATH

want me, I had to learn to need my mother less. When we fought she
said I was killing her. At some point, I don’t know exactly when, I de¬
cided not to care if she did die. I pulled myself away from her fate and
tried to become indifferent to it. With a kind of emotional jujitsu, I
pushed my mother away in my mind and in how I lived. I did this as a
child. I knew that she might really die, and maybe I would be the cause,
as they all kept saying. I also knew I was being manipulated. I had to
make a choice: follow by rote her ten thousand rules of behavior for how
a girl must act, think, look, sit, stand — in other words, cut out my own
heart; or withstand the threat of her imminent death — give up the hope
of her love or her friendship or her understanding. I disciplined myself to
walk away from her in every sense and over time I learned how. She told
me I had a hard heart.

I made good grades, though I had trouble conforming in class as I
got older because of the intellectual vacuity of most of my teachers. I
followed enough of the social rules to keep adults at bay. There weren’t
therapists in schools yet, so no adult got to force-fuck my mind. I was
smart enough to be able to strategize. I wasn’t supposed to take long,
solitary walks, but I took them. I wasn’t supposed to go to other parts of
our neighborhood, but I went. I had friends who were not Jewish or
white at a time when race and religion lines were not crossed. I knew
boys who were too old for me. I read books children weren’t allowed to
read. I regarded all of this as my private life and my right. My mother
simply continued to regard me as a liar and a cheat with incomprehen¬
sible but clearly sinister tendencies and ideas.

When I was ten we moved to Delaware Township in New Jersey, a
place New York Times writer Russell Baker described in a column as
“nowhere along the highway,” after which the outraged citizens changed
the name to Cherry Hill. It was an empty place with sporadic outbreaks
of ranch-type and split-level housing projects. There were still wild
cherry trees and some deer. With the deer came hunters who stalked
them across flat fields of ragweed and poison ivy. It was virtually all-
white, unlike Camden where the schools were racially and ethnically
mixed even as residential blocks were segregated according to precise

MY LIFT- AS A WRITER 9

calibrations: Polish Catholics on one block, Irish Catholics on another.
It was intellectually arid, except for a few teachers, one of whom liked to
play sex-and-seduction games with smart little girls. It was wealthy
while we were quite poor. We moved there because my mother could
not climb steps and the good Lord had never made a flatter place than
Delaware Township/Cherry Hill. I lived for the day that I would leave
to go to New York City, where there were poets and writers and jazz and
people like me.

Harry, my daddy, was not a rolling stone. He wasn’t at home be¬
cause he worked two jobs most of the time and three jobs some of
the time. He was a schoolteacher during the day and at night he un¬
loaded packages at the post office. Later he became a guidance counselor
at a boys’ academic high school in Philadelphia and also in a private
school for dropouts trying to get their high school diplomas. I don’t
know what the third job was, or when he had it. My brother and I
would go stretches of many days without seeing him at home; and when
we were in other people’s houses, it could be weeks. There were times
when he would go to college classes on Saturdays in an effort to get his
Ph.D. degree, but he never had the time to write a dissertation, so he
never got the degree. My dream was that when I grew up I would be able
to give him the money to write his dissertation; but I never did make
enough money and he says he is too old now anyway (though he still
goes to the library every week). He was different from other men in how
he acted and how he thought. He was gentle and soft-spoken. He lis¬
tened with careful attention to children and women. He wanted teach¬
ers to unionize and the races to integrate. He was devoted to my mother
and determined that she would get the very best medical care, a goal en¬
tirely out of reach for a low-paid schoolteacher, except that he did it. He
borrowed money to pay medical bills. He borrowed money to take my
mother to heart specialists. He borrowed money for professional nurses
and to get housecleaning help and some child care and sometimes to
hire a cook. He kept us warm and fed and sheltered, even though not
always at home or together. He was outspoken and demonstrative in

10 LIFE AND DEATH

expressing affection, not self-conscious or withdrawn as most men were.
He was nurturant and emotionally empathetic. He crossed a gender line
and was stigmatized for it; called a sissy and a fairy by my buddies on the
street who no doubt heard it from their parents. He loved my mother
and he loved Mark and me; but especially me. I will never know why.
He said I was the apple of his eye from the time I was born and I believe
him. I did nothing to earn it and it was the one great gift of my life. On
Sundays he slept late but he and I would watch the Sunday news shows
together and analyze foreign crises or political personalities or social con¬
flicts. We would debate and argue, not the vicious arguments I had with
my mother but heightened dialogue always touching on policy, ideas,
rights, the powerful and the oppressed, discrimination and prejudice. I
don’t know how he had the patience; but patience was a defining charac¬
teristic. He enjoyed my intelligence and treated me with respect. I think
that to be loved so unconditionally by a father and treated with respect
by him was not common for a girl then. I think he kept my mother alive
and I think he kept Mark and me from being raised in foster care or as
orphans.

He was appalled by the conflict between me and my mother, and cer¬
tainly by the time I was a teen-ager he held me responsible for it. He
knew I was adult inside. He let me know that my mothers well-being
would always come first with him. And I remember that he hated it
when I would cry. He must have thought it cowardly and pitiful and
self-indulgent. I made many eloquent but to him unpersuasive declara¬
tions about my right to cry.

I trusted and honored him. I guess that I trusted him to love me even
more than to take care of us. In an honors history seminar in high school,
the class was asked to name great men in history. I named my father and
was roundly ridiculed by advocates for Thomas Jefferson and Napoleon.
But I meant it — that he had the qualities of true greatness, which I de¬
fined as strength, generosity, fairness, and a willingness to sacrifice self for
principle. His principle was us: my mother, Mark, and me. When I was
an adult we had serious ruptures and the relationship broke apart several
times — all occasions of dire emergency for me. I think that he did aban-

MY LIFE AS A WRITER 11

don me when I was in circumstances of great suffering and danger. He
was, I learned the hard way, only human. But what he gave me as a child,
neither he nor anyone else could take away from me later. I learned per¬
severance from his example, and that endurance was a virtue. Even some
of his patience rubbed off on me for some few years. I saw courage in ac¬
tion in ordinary life, without romance; and I learned the meaning of
commitment. I could never have become a writer without him.

I wrote my first novel during science class in seventh grade in the sub¬
urbs. My best friend, a wild, beautiful girl who wanted to be a
painter, sat next to me and also wrote a novel. In the eighth grade, my
friend gone from school to be with a male painter in his late twenties or
thirties, I wrote a short story for English class so disturbing to my
teacher that she put her feelings of apprehension into my permanent
record. The ethos was to conform, not to stand out. She knew the writ-
ing was good, and that troubled her. There was too much vibrancy in
the language, too much imagination in the physical evocations of place
and mood. Highly influenced by the television series The Twilight Zone
and grief-stricken at the loss of my soulmate girlfriend, I wrote a story
about a wild woman, strong and beautiful, with long hair and torn
clothes, on another planet, sitting on a rock. My story had no plot re¬
ally, only longing and language. I remember getting lost in descriptions
of the woman, the sky, the rock, maybe wind and dirt. In formal terms,
I believe I kept circling back to the woman on the rock through repeat¬
ing images and phrases that worked almost like music to my ear — a way
of creating movement yet insisting on the permanence of some elements
of the scenario. I had a picture in my mind, which was involuntary. I
don t know why it was there or how it got there. The picture was stub¬
born: it didn’t move or change. I could see it as if it were real with my
eyes open, though it was conceptual and in my head. It wasn’t in front
of my eyes; it was behind them. I had huge emotions of pain and loss. I
had the need to keep moving through life, not be held back or stopped
by anything I felt. I remember finding words that resonated with the
emotions I felt: not words that expressed those emotions or described

12 LIFE AND DEATH

them, but words that embodied them without ever showing them. It
was the unrevealed emotion — attached to the words but invisible in
them, then used to paint the picture in my head in language that was
concrete and physical — that gave the prose an intensity so troubling to
my teacher. Was she troubled by the homoeroticism of the story? I don’t
believe she recognized it.

In the eighth grade, of course, I did not have any consistent internal
standards for how prose must be or what prose must do. But I did know
much more about what I wanted from language when, thirty years later,
I brought that same picture, the same wild woman on the same rock,
into my novel Mercy, first published in 1990 in England.

The rock was Masada: a steep, barren mountain surrounded by
desert, a refuge in ancient Palestine for a community of Jews known as
zealots who committed, as the traditional story goes, mass suicide rather
than surrender to the occupying Roman army. Ten men used their
swords to slit the throats of everyone else; then one man killed the nine
men and himself.

Mercy s narrator is a contemporary figure who in one of the novels
endings (it has two) sees herself as the wild woman on Masada at the
time of the so-called suicides: “A child cant commit suicide. You have to
murder a child. I couldn’t watch the children killed; I couldn’t watch the
women taken one last time; throats bared; heads thrown back, or
pushed back, or pulled back; a man gets on top, who knows what hap¬
pens next, any time can be the last time, slow murder or fast, slow rape
or fast, eventual death, a surprise or you are waiting with a welcome, an
open invitation; rape leading, inexorably, to death; on a bare rock, inva¬
sion, blood, and death. Masada; hear my heart beat; hear me; the
women and children were murdered.”

I wasn’t missing my old girlfriend. I didn’t have the same picture in
my head because I was feeling what I had felt in the eighth grade. In my
experience nothing in writing is that simple. Both memory and con¬
sciousness are deeper and wider than the thinking mind, which might
find meaning in such a facile association.

I felt, certainly, a much larger abandonment, a more terrifying deso-

MY LIFE AS A WRITER 13

lation, essentially impersonal: how the lives of women and children
were worthless to men and God. In the despair of that recognition, the
barren landscape of the rock became a place to stare men and God in
the face, and my wild woman the one to do it. When the picture first
came into my head, I dismissed it but it would not go. When I started
to work with it in words, I saw Masada, I saw her, and I saw the mur¬
ders. I, the writer, became a witness. Real history out in the world and a
picture etched in my brain but forgotten for three decades converged in
words I felt compelled to keep bringing together. Each word brought
with it more detail, more clarity. My narrator, who is a character in my
book, knows less than I do. She is inside the story. Deciding what she
will see, what she can know, I am detached from her and cold in how I
use her. I do not ever think she is me. She is not my mouthpiece. She
does not directly speak my views or enumerate my ideas or serve as a
mannequin in words displaying my wounds of body or soul. I am more
than the sum of all her parts; and she can live in the readers mind but
the reader s mind cannot know me through knowing her. I have never
been to Masada. However dull it may seem, I am the person who sits at
the typewriter writing words, rewriting them, over and over, night in
and night out (since I work at night), over months or years. Mercy took
three years to write.

In using the picture in my head from my eighth-grade story, I broke
the picture open into a universe of complex and concrete detail dreadful
with meaning, in particular about incest and the power of the father —
the patriarchal right of invasion into the bodies of women and children.
At the end of writing Mercy s Masada chapter, I felt as if I had finally
seen that earlier picture whole. When I was younger I could only see a
fragment, or a line drawing, but now I had seen everything that had
been implicit in the picture from the beginning, from its first appear¬
ance in my mind, as if I had uncovered something pre-existing. It was
always real and whole; what I had done as a writer was to find it and de¬
scribe it, not invent it. In the eighth grade, I had not known how to use
my mind or language to explicate the picture in my head, which was a
gift or a visitation; I couldn’t see the human destiny that had been acted

14 LIFE AND DEATH

out on that barren rock. But the time between my childhood and now
had collapsed. The time between Masada and now had collapsed.

This strange but not unusual aftermath of creating helps to explain
why so many writers disclaim responsibility for their characters and
ideas. The character made me do it, most writers say. But the truth is
that one starts out with a blank page, and each and every page is blank
until the writer fills it. In the process, the mind uses itself up, each cogni¬
tive capacity — intellect, imagination, memory, intuition, emotion, even
cunning — used to the absolute utmost, a kind of strip-mining of ones
mental faculties. At the same time, with the mind as scavenger and plun¬
derer, one cannibalizes ones own life. But ones own life for the writer in¬
cludes everything she can know, not just what happened to her in the or¬
dinary sense. If I know about you — a gesture, an emotion, an event — I
will use you if I need your gesture, your emotion, your event. What I
take will seem to me to be mine, as if I know it from the inside, because
my imagination will turn it over and tear it apart. Writers use themselves
and they use other people. Empathy can be invasive. Friendship is some¬
times a robbery-in-progress. This omniscient indifference takes a certain
coldness, and a certain distance, which writers have and use.

Facts and details are the surface. The writer needs the facts and every¬
thing underneath them. One wanders, bodiless, or goes on search-and-
destroy missions using one s mind. One needs a big earth, rich soil, deep
roots: one digs and pulls and takes.

But after, when the writing is finished, one looks at the finished thing
and has a feeling or conviction of inevitability: I found it, not I made it.
It — the story, the novel — had its own laws; I simply followed them —
found them and followed them; was smart enough and shrewd enough
to find them and follow them; wasnt sidetracked or diverted, which
would mean failure, a lesser book. Even with nonfiction, which in the
universe of my writing has the same cognitive complexity as fiction, in
the aftermath one feels that one has chiseled a pre-existing form (which
necessarily has substance attached to it) out of a big, shapeless stone: it
was there, I found it. This is an affirmation of skill but not of invention.
At best, one feels like a sculptor who knows how to liberate the shape

MY LIFE AS A WRITER 15

hidden in the marble or clay — or knew the last time but may not know
the next, may be careless, may ruin the stone through distraction or stu¬
pidity. Once finished, the process of writing becomes opaque, even to
the writer. I did it but how did I do it? Can I ever do it again? The brain
becomes normal. One can still think, of course, but not with the lumi¬
nosity that makes intelligence so powerful a tool while writing, nor can
one think outside of literal and linear time anymore.

Writing is alchemy. Dross becomes gold. Experience is transformed.
Pain is changed. Suffering may become song. The ordinary or horrible
is pushed by the will of the writer into grace or redemption, a prophetic
wail, a screed for justice, an elegy of sadness or sorrow. It is the lone and
lonesome human voice, naked, raw, crying out, but hidden too, muted,
twisted and turned, knotted or fractured, by the writer’s love of form, or
formal beauty: the aesthetic dimension, which is not necessarily familiar
or friendly. Nor does form necessarily tame or simplify experience.
There is always a tension between experience and the thing that finally
carries it forward, bears its weight, holds it in. Without that tension,
one might as well write a shopping list.

My fiction is not autobiography. I am not an exhibitionist. I don’t
show myself. I am not asking forgiveness. I don’t want to confess. But I
have used everything I know — my life — to show what I believe must be
shown so that it can be faced. The imperative at the heart of my writ-
ing — what must be done — comes directly from my life. But I do not
show my life directly, in full view; nor even look at it while others
watch.

Autobiography is the unseen foundation of my nonfiction work, es¬
pecially Intercourse and Pornography: Men Possessing Women. These two
nonfiction books are not “about” me. There is no first-person writing in
them. Conceptually, each involved the assimilation of research in many
intellectually distinct areas using analytical skills culled from different
disciplines. The research materials had nothing to do with me person¬
ally. They were freestanding, objectively independent (for instance, not
interviews conducted by me). Yet when I wrote Intercourse and Pornog¬
raphy: Men Possessing Women , I used my life in every decision I made. It

16 LIFE AND DEATH

was my compass. Only by using it could I find north and stay on
course. If a reader could lift up the words on the page, she would see —
far, far under the surface — my life. If the print on the page turned into
blood, it would be my blood from many different places and times. But
I did not want the reader to see my life or my blood. I wanted her to see
intercourse or pornography. I wanted her to know them the way I know
them: which is deeply.

I’d like to take what I know and just hand it over. But there is always
a problem for a woman: being believed. How can I think I know some¬
thing? How can I think that what I know might matter? Why would I
think that anything I think might make a difference, to anyone, any¬
where? My only chance to be believed is to find a way of writing bolder
and stronger than woman hating itself — smarter, deeper, colder. This
might mean that I would have to write a prose more terrifying than
rape, more abject than torture, more insistent and destabilizing than
battery, more desolate than prostitution, more invasive than incest,
more filled with threat and aggression than pornography. How would
the innocent bystander be able to distinguish it, tell it apart from the
tales of the rapists themselves if it were so nightmarish and impolite?
There are no innocent bystanders. It would have to stand up for
women — stand against the rapist and the pimp — by changing womens
silence to speech. It would have to say all the unsaid words during rape
and after; while prostituting and after; all the words not said. It would
have to change womens apparent submission — the consent read into
the silence by the wicked and the complacent — into articulate resis¬
tance. I myself would have to give up my own cloying sentimentality to¬
ward men. I’d have to be militant; sober and austere. I would have to
commit treason: against the men who rule. I would have to betray the
noble, apparently humanistic premises of civilization and civilized writ¬
ing by conceptualizing each book as if it were a formidable weapon in a
war. I would have to think strategically, with a militarist s heart: as if my
books were complex explosives, mine fields set down in the culture to
blow open the status quo. I’d have to give up Baudelaire for Clausewitz.

Yes, okay, I will. Yes, okay: I did. In retrospect, that is just what I did:

MY LIFE AS A WRITER 17

in Mercy and Intercourse and Pornography : Men Possessing Women and Ice
and Fire.

It was in Amsterdam in 1972 that I made the vow, which I have kept,
that I would use everything I know in behalf of womens liberation. I
owed the womens movement a big debt: it was a feminist who helped
me escape the brutality of my marriage. Escape is not a one-time run for
your life: you keep running and hiding; he shows up out of nowhere
and beats you, menaces you, threatens, intimidates, screams a foul in¬
vective at you in broad daylight on crowded streets, breaks into wher¬
ever you find to live, hits you with his dirty fists, dirtied by your pain,
your blood.

I left the marital home toward the end of 1971, some two months
after I turned twenty-five. I fled the country in which I had been living
for five years in November 1972. I have no continuous memory of the
events of that year. Even with the events I can remember, I have no
sense of their sequence. I was attacked, persecuted, followed, harassed,
by the husband I had left; I often lived the life of a fugitive, except that
it was the more desperate life of a battered woman who had run away
for the last time, whatever the outcome.

I have written about the experience of being a battered wife in three
nonfiction essays: “A Battered Wife Survives” (1978) and “What Bat¬
tery Really Is” (1989), both of which are included in the U.S. edition of
Letters From a War Zone, and “Trapped in a Pattern of Pain,” published
in the Los Angeles Times , June 26, 1994. I wrote “A Battered Wife Sur¬
vives” to celebrate my thirty-first birthday. I still shook and trembled
uncontrollably, but not all the time; had nightmares and flashbacks, but
less. I had published two books: Woman Hating (1974) and Our Blood
(1976). I had survived and was not alone in a universe of pain and fear.
The other two essays were written in behalf of other battered women:
Hedda Nussbaum and Nicole Brown Simpson. I felt the need to try to
make people understand how destructive and cruel battery is — and how
accepted, how normal, how supported by society. With enormous re¬
luctance, I revisited the site of this devastation in my own life. I had to

18 LIFE AND DEATH

say what battery was from the point of view of the woman being hurt,
since I knew.

Everything I have written in these nonfiction essays about myself is
true. It would be wrong, however, to read my fiction as if it were a fac¬
tual narrative, a documentary in words. Literature is always simpler and
easier than life, especially in conveying atrocity. As the infrequency of
my nonfiction essays about battery suggests, I am extremely reluctant to
write about it: partly because I cant bear to think about it; partly be¬
cause I feel physically ill when I literally trip over absent memory, great
and awful blank areas of my life that I cannot recover — I am shaky with
dread and vertigo; and partly because I still hide.

But the year of running, hiding, to stay alive is essential to the story
of how I became a writer, or the writer I am, for better or worse. He
kept our home; I was pushed out. This was fine, since I just wanted not
to be hit. I had no money. I was isolated as battered women usually are
but also I was a foreigner with no real rights except through my hus¬
band. My parents refused to have me back. His family was his — I was
too afraid of him ever to tell them anything, though I believe they
knew. I slept first on the floor of a friend s room — his friend, too — with
her two dogs. Later, I slept where I could. I lived this way before I was
married but not with an assassin after me, nor having sustained such
brutality that my mind didn’t quite work — it failed me in everyday situ¬
ations, which it no longer recognized; it failed me with ordinary people
who couldn’t grasp my fear.

A feminist named Ricki Abrams helped me: gave me asylum, a dan¬
gerous kindness in the face of a battering man; helped me find shelter
repeatedly; and together she and 1 started to plan the book that became
Woman Hating.

I lived on houseboats on the canals — a majestic one near the Magere
Brug, a stunningly beautiful bridge, a plainer one infested with mice. I
slept in someone’s kitchen. I lived for a while in the same house as Ricki,
a narrow, teetering building on a cobblestone street that ringed a canal
in Amsterdam’s historically preserved old city. I hid on a farm far out¬
side Amsterdam with a commune of hippies who made their own cloth

MY LIFE AS A WRITER 19

with a spinning wheel and a loom. I slept in a cold and deserted man¬
sion near the German border. In one emergency, when my husband had
broken into where I was living, had beaten me and threatened to kill
me, I spent three weeks sleeping in a movie theater that was empty most
of the time. Experimental movies were shown in a big room where I
hid. The whole building was empty otherwise. On some nights small
audiences of artistes would sit and watch formless flashes of light. When
the avant-garde cleared out, I was allowed to open a cot. I lived in a state
of terror. Every trip outside might mean death if he found me.

No one knew about battery then, including me. It had no public
name. There were no shelters or refuges. Police were indifferent. There
was no feminist advocacy or literature or social science. No one knew
about the continuing consequences, now called post-traumatic stress
syndrome, which has a nice dignity to it. How many times, after all, can
one say terror, fear, anguish, dread, flashbacks, shaking, uncontrollable
trembling, nightmares, hes going to kill me?

At the time, so far as I knew, I was the only person this had ever hap¬
pened to; and the degradation had numbed me, disoriented me,
changed me, lowered me, shamed me, broken me.

It was Ricki who first gave me feminist books to read. I remember es¬
pecially Sexual Politics by Kate Millett (whose class at Barnard Ricki had
taken), The Dialectic of Sex by Shulamith Firestone, and the anthology
Sisterhood Is Powerful edited by Robin Morgan. I had left the United
States in 1968 a second time (the first being in 1965, after a rapelike
trauma in Manhattan’s Women’s House of Detention, where I was
taken after an arrest for protesting the Vietnam War). I had not read or
heard about these books. I argued with them in Amsterdam. I argued
with Ricki. Oppression meant the U.S. in Vietnam, or apartheid in
South Africa, or legal segregation in the U.S. Even though I had been
tortured and was fighting for my life, I could not see women, or myself
as a woman, as having political significance. I did know that the battery
was not my fault. I had been told by everyone I asked for help the many
times I tried to escape — strangers and friends — that he would not be
hitting me if I didn’t like it or want it. I rejected this outright. Even back

20 LIFE AND DEATH

then, the experience of being battered was recognizably impersonal to
me. Maybe I was the only person in the world this had ever happened
to, but I knew it had nothing to do with me as an individual. It just
never occurred to me that I was being hit because I was a woman.

Woman Hating was not a book written out of an ideology. It came
out of an emergency, written half underground and in hiding. I wanted
to find out what had happened to me and why. I knew only that it was
impersonal. I made a list of what I thought might bear on what had
happened to me, and that list became the table of contents in the pub¬
lished book. I looked at fairy tales — what did they teach about being fe¬
male; at pornography — I was part of a generation that used it — what
did it say about being female; at Chinese footbinding and the persecu¬
tion of the witches — why was there culturally normalized violence
against females; at androgyny — the myths and contemporary ideas of a
community not organized on the principle of gender, the falseness of
gender itself. I wanted to examine the culture: sex roles; sex; history;
mythology; community.

Somehow, I had been given a key and access to a space in the basement
of Paradiso, one of the clubs the Dutch government sponsored for coun¬
terculture, hashish-smoking, rock-and-roll— addicted hippies. The base¬
ment under the huge church building was dark and dank with a colony of
misfits and homeless, mentally disoriented strangers, most of whom were
hiding from someone, often the police. I was allowed to work there on the
book — I had a desk and chair — but I was not supposed to sleep there,
and I tried not to. My cohabitants did not inspire confidence, and my
husband, who worked upstairs at night when Paradiso was open, was dan¬
gerous for sure. Like other escaping battered women (I have since
learned), I lived in a shared or overlapping social and economic world
with the batterer; I tried to believe it would be all right.

The book Ricki and I were going to write together became, of course,
very important to me. I don’t know if the attempt was interrupted by
the violence or the violence was interrupted by the attempt. I know that
I devoted myself to the book, even though it was hard for me to con¬
centrate because I lived in constant fear. I held on to the book as if it

MY LIFE AS A WRITER 21

were a life raft, even though I was drowning in poverty and fear. There
were times of hope, near normalcy. At one point my husband got a new
apartment and offered me our old one. I took it, for all the obvious rea¬
sons. He left a mattress; someone gave me a small radio; and I lived on
potatoes. Then he started breaking in; and it was there that he bloodied
me and said he would kill me, run me down when he saw me, and I
knew it was true finally, and I had to hide in the movie theater after that
for three weeks, the time it took to get a restraining order. My lawyer,
assigned by the court, at first didn’t believe me or didn’t care when I told
him about the beatings or how dangerous my husband was; but later
my husband apparently roughed up the lawyer’s secretary. This time,
when driven from the apartment by my husband’s threats to a phone in
a store around the block, the lawyer told me to go somewhere else for a
while, though he didn’t know where or how and didn’t care. I had had
to go to the store to use the phone because the apartment phone was in
my husband s name, and he had it disconnected and it was a two-year
wait for a new line. As I came out of the back room of the store where
the phone was, the woman who owned the store opened her cash regis¬
ter, grabbed a handful of bills, pushed them at me, and said: “Run for
your life. Now.” I did.

Through all this, I held on to this idea of a book; and I kept working
on it. Ricki and I did research together and some writing together. But
then she pulled away from it. The book itself, in taking on countercul¬
ture pornography, brought us into conflict with friends and acquain¬
tances in the exilic, counterculture community in Amsterdam. Some of
these folks produced a pornography tabloid called Suck . Ricki and I
drafted a chapter on Suck and gave it to them to read. I, at least, believed
that they would see the insult to women in what they were publishing,
and that there was danger in some of their photographs — I remember
in particular a photo of an Asian woman inserting a huge, glass, bowl¬
shaped jar into her rectum. I had begun to identify with other women.
Our friends, the makers of the pornography, reacted with outrage to our
effrontery in challenging them. They said they had always been for civil
rights (against segregation based on race) and this was sex — what kind

22 LIFE AND DEATH

of chicks were we anyway? We thought we were perfectly fine chicks at
the time, even though the word “chick” itself was beginning to have an
ugly sound to it. Ricki decided that she couldn’t take the social os¬
tracism these folks threatened. We agreed that I would finish the book
and get it published. I had to get out of there anyway or Id be killed. I
knew I had to disappear and that there could be no mistakes. I planned
a secret escape and in November 1972 I disappeared suddenly.

The vow that I made — out loud, to myself but with Ricki as wit¬
ness — was that I would become a real writer and I would use everything
I knew to help women. I didn’t know how much I knew, how valuable it
would be; nor did she. But we both did understand that in 1972 what I
knew was not part of feminism: what I knew about male dominance in
sex or rape in marriage, for instance. The knowledge about male domi¬
nance in sex came not only from this one marriage but from several years
of prostituting before I got married. I called it “being on the streets,” and
it consisted of equal parts whoring, poverty and homelessness, and just
being a tough girl. I had never kept it a secret, not from my husband, not
from any friend. Ricki and I both understood that I had experience that
could be knowledge. I made a vow to use it for women.

Writers need to be damned hard to kill. So do women, of course.

I have never believed in suicide, the female poets alternative to
standing her ground and facing down the power of men. I don’t like it
that Plath and Sexton wrote strong and beautiful poems capturing the
horror and meanness of male dominance but would not risk losing so¬
cially conventional femininity by sticking around to fight it out in the
realm of politics, including the politics of culture. I always wanted to
live. I fought hard to live. This means I did something new. I have been
bearing the unbearable, and facing men down, for a long time now.

I began messing with men when I was in high school, though, sadly,
they began messing with me earlier than that — I was raped at nine,
though not legally, since fingers and a hand were used for penetration,
not the officially requisite penis. That ended up in my hand as he
twisted and contorted with a physical omnipresence that pinned me

MY LIFE AS A WRITER 23

and manipulated me at the same time. This breach of a child’s body
does count. It does register. The boundary of the body itself is broken
by force and intimidation, a chaotic but choreographed violence. The
child is used intentionally and reduced to less than human by the preda¬
tor’s intelligence as well as his behavior. The commitment of the child
molester is absolute, and both his insistence and his victory communi¬
cate to the child his experience of her — a breachable, breakable thing
any stranger can wipe his dick on. When it is family, of course, the in¬
vasion is more terrible, more intimate, escape more unlikely. I was
lucky — it was a stranger. I was lucky by the standards of today: neither
kidnapped nor killed. The man became part of the dark — not “the
dark” in its usual symbolic sense, bad, with a racist tinge, but part of the
literal dark: his body, almost distinct, got folded into every dark room
like the one in which he hurt me and he got folded into the dark of
every night I had to get through, with eyes open, waiting. I didn’t like to
sleep, because then I couldn’t guard my mother against death. So I kept
my eyes open. I could feel that the night was occupied with tangible
creatures, and the man, hiding, was one of them.

As a child with an immense ambition to live, to know, to feel, I
moved toward everything that frightened me: men, night, the giving up
of my own body. I wanted to be an artist, by which I meant a writer. I
despised commercial writing. My heroes were Rimbaud and Baudelaire.

I had a paperback of Baudelaire’s poems with me, in French with an
English prose translation, when the man molested me. A few years later
I had a high school teacher who said that most girls of my social class
who worked (the ideal was not to work) became hairdressers, but I was
so smart that I could become a prostitute, which at least was interesting.
He was my tutor in sex; a guide; a charlatan and an exploiter. But he
made the sameness of art and opening my legs palpable, urgent: there
wasn’t one without the other. I thought he was a philosopher and some¬
day we would found a school of philosophy; I would be his acolyte. He
introduced me to Camus and Sartre. I was a motherless child with spirit
and intelligence in a world that abhorred both in girls. I wanted knowl¬
edge but distrusted formal education because the adults were enforcers

24 LIFE AND DEATH

and transparently wanted to break my spirit; except for the seducer. He
wanted to appropriate it for his own purposes but I didn’t begin to
imagine that. I would find ways to go to New York City to find poems
and on the bus I would find a way to get money from old guys who
liked teen-age girls to touch them. I’d use the money to go to Green¬
wich Village and buy mimeographed collections of poems. I loved Allen
Ginsberg especially. More than anyone he expressed the sense of pain I
felt, the anger and rebellion, but also the undifferentiated infatuation I
felt for the world of possibility around me. I had no sense of evil and I
didn’t believe that harm could defeat me — I’d make poems out of it.
High school was hell, to be endured, the teachers behavior-police who
took books away and tried to shut the mind down. For instance, a
tenth-grade teacher in a study hall confiscated my copy of Hamlet ,
which I had been reading. She said we weren’t allowed to read it until
the twelfth grade. I told her that I had already read it several times so
why take it from me? She did take it and countered with her certainty
that one day she would read about me in the newspapers. In those days
only politicians and criminals made news. Girls didn’t become politi¬
cians. I was bad for reading Hamlet. Each day the enforcers pushed me
into a sustained rage laced with contempt; and each day the seducer ma¬
nipulated my anger and loneliness, pushed me further into experiencing
intelligence as a sexualized mark of Cain and artistic ambition as a sexu-
alized delinquency.

Meanwhile, my father worked hard so that I could have a formal ed¬
ucation that would be excellent, not mediocre, on the college level. The
high school guidance counselors wanted me to go to a state college for
girls to get a teaching degree “to fall back on when your husband dies.”
My intelligence had no significance to them; my desire to write, which I
confessed, was beneath consideration. My father knew I would not stay
in any college that was high school redux. In September 1964 I went to
Bennington College on scholarships and loans, loans he took out, not
me. I did have jobs there for money but not enough to carry any of the
real economic burden. I stayed there one year, left, returned for two
years, left, mailed in my thesis from Amsterdam. In 1969 my father, fit-

MY LIFE AS A WRITER 25

tingly, attended my graduation and picked up my diploma. I am con¬
sidered a graduate of the class of 1968, however, because that is how
Bennington keeps track of students. In those years, so many students
left — some of the richer ones to Austin Riggs, a mental institution not
too far away, some taking other detours — that the college always reck¬
oned you a member of the class in which you entered and optimistically
added four years to signify graduation; it would be hard for an already
overtaxed administration to know who returned when, for how long,
and to what end.

Bennington had a reputation for academic excellence and a bo¬
hemian environment. In fact, Bennington trained mistresses, not wives,
for artists, not businessmen. To illustrate the ambience: the year before
my first year, seniors in literature had, as a group project, recreated the
brothel scene in Joyces Ulysses , themselves the whores. A lot of the fac¬
ulty preyed on the nearly all-female student body; and the deep convic¬
tion of most of the faculty that these girls would never become artists
themselves was openly articulated when, in my third year of attendance,
coeducation was discussed and eventually adopted. Students, including
me, got to hear how useless the mostly male faculty felt teaching girls.
We never became anything, they said, each a dozen times in a dozen
ways. We seemed to be fine for fucking and serial marriage, some fac¬
ulty actually going through as many as four marriages with successive
students and countless adulteries. But we could never become what in
our hearts we thought we were: creative, ambitious, risk-taking doers
and thinkers and makers. I had three brilliant teachers at Bennington,
each of whom was ethically scrupulous with respect to me; and I owe
them a lot. They taught me with an astonishing intellectual generosity;
they supported my aspirations; they even protected me, from other fac¬
ulty and sometimes from myself. They extended friendship without the
sexualization. The rest of it was intellectually boring. After my first few
weeks there, my philosophy professor telephoned me at the student
house where I lived and asked me please not to leave: she knew I was
bored. I distracted myself with drugs, sex, and politics.

Bennington had a nine-week work period in the winter — a long two

26 LIFE AND DEATH

months — and long Thanksgiving, Christmas, and spring breaks, a big
problem for a girl with no real home and no money. For my first work
period in December 1964 I took marginal political jobs in New York
City and fucked for food and shelter and whatever cash I needed. I
worked with the Student Peace Union and the War Resisters League op¬
posing the war in Vietnam. I had other jobs, too, for instance as a re¬
ceptionist at a New York University institute for remedial reading. In
February 1965 I was arrested outside the United States Mission to the
United Nations for protesting Amerikas involvement in Vietnam. I had
a book of poems by Charles Olson with me when I was arrested. I spent
four days in the Womens House of Detention before I was released on
my own recognizance. While in jail, in addition to the many strip-
searches by hand that police and nurses made into my vagina and anus,
I was brutalized by two male doctors who gave me an internal examina¬
tion, the first one I ever had. They pretty much tore me up inside with
a steel speculum and had themselves a fine old time verbally tormenting
me as well. I saw them enjoy it. I witnessed their pleasure in doing it. I
couldn’t understand why they would like to hurt me. I began to bleed
right after. When I came out of jail I was mute from the trauma. I wan¬
dered around the city, homeless and resourceless, silent and confused,
for several days, until I showed up at the apartment of a stranger who
had taken a bag I had packed for jail from me when, toward the end of
the day, it seemed as if we would not be arrested. I sort of vaguely re¬
membered her name and looked it up in the phone book when I needed
underwear badly enough. She was the writer Grace Paley and this was
before she herself had gone to jail to protest Vietnam. She made me
come in and sit; I stared silently. Grace got me to talk but instead of
normal talk I said what had happened to me. I didn’t even know the
words for speculum or internal examination, so I was exceptionally
blunt and used my hands. She thought that what had been done to me
was horrible and she immediately called a woman reporter to say that
this monstrous thing had been done to this girl. The reporter said: so
what? But that night I went to the Student Peace Union office and
typed letters to newspapers to tell what had happened to me in the jail:

MY LIFE AS A WRITER 27

blunt letters. The antiwar boys, whose letters I typed during the day,
whose leaflets I mimeographed, laughed at me; but I mounted a protest
against the prison. The New York Times , the Daily News , and the New
York Post carried the story. The city was forced to conduct a grand jury
investigation. An assistant to the governor also investigated. A liberal
Republican, John V. Lindsay, challenged entrenched Democratic in¬
cumbent Robert Wagner for mayor partly by holding Wagner responsi¬
ble for the corruption in the jail and promising to shut it down. Lindsay
won. Television news shows did documentaries on the prison, which
had a long history of brutalizing women, some of whom had died.
Eventually, the grand jury vindicated the prison, and the governors as¬
sistant was defunded by the legislature. My parents were ashamed of my
arrest and of the way in which I had been hurt. They were enraged with
me and pretty much abandoned me. I left school, my parents, the coun¬
try. I went to Greece with less than $100 in my pocket. I gave most of it
to an old woman, Mildred, whom I met on a train. She said she had lost
hers but had money waiting in Athens. I showed up at the appointed
place, at the appointed time, but she never came. That night, my nine¬
teenth birthday, I picked up a Greek army officer: I needed food and
money. Since the hill overlooking Athens was beautiful and the night
sublime, it was easy to pretend this was romance. I remember saying to
him after, “You really hate women, don’t you?” I hadn’t anticipated
woman hating but I recognized it in his abrupt post-coital tristesse. I
learned not to voice the observation however many times I made it,
whatever the post-coital mood. Men don’t like to be seen or remarked
on by what my friend Judith Malina, director of the Living Theatre,
calls “talking women.” I wrote poems and a novel called Notes on Burn¬
ing Boyfriend ’ a surrealistic screed against the Vietnam War built on the
self-immolation of protester Norman Morrison. I published a small col¬
lection of poems and Genet-like prose called Child (Heraklion, Crete,
1966). It wasn’t until I published Woman Hating in 1974 that I became
a talking woman who could say with some authority: you really hate
women, don’t you?

The authority was never my own plain experience. I always thought

28 LIFE AND DEATH

other people s lives were worth more than mine. As a matter of tem¬
perament I had an interest in the collective or communal, not the per¬
sonal. I thought psychology was a phony science, and I still do. I didn’t
think something was important simply because it happened to me, and
certainly the world concurred. I had learned that I would not be be¬
lieved. I knew that from the world’s point of view, though never my
own, I was trash, the bottom. The prison authorities said I lied and the
grand jury claimed to believe them, not me. No one really believed me
about my husband. I had a deep experience of the double standard but
no systematic understanding of it. The writers I had loved and wanted
to emulate — Baudelaire or Artaud or Dostoevsky or Henry Miller or
Jean Genet — were apparently ennobled by degradation. The lower they
sunk the more credibility they had. I was lowered and disgraced, first by
what was being called sexual liberation, then by the violence of domes¬
tic sexual servitude, without any concomitant increase in expertness: I
paid my dues, baby, I know the price of the ticket but so what? When I
emerged as a writer with Woman Hating, it was not to wallow in pain, or
in depravity, or in the male romance with prostitution; it was to de¬
mand change. I wanted to change the power structure in the social
world that had made degradation a destiny for many of us, or lots of us,
or maybe even all of us — for women. I didn’t want to write the female
suicide’s poem; nor did I want to write another male-inspired lyric cele¬
brating the sewer. I wanted to resist male dominance for myself and to
change the outcome for other women. I did not want to open my legs
again, this time in prose. I did not believe that to do so would persuade
or bring change. I found, then and over the next twenty years, a stub¬
born refusal to credit a woman with any deep knowledge of the world
itself, the world outside the domain of her own introspection about ro¬
mantic love, housekeeping, a man. This refusal was so basic and so
widespread that it could stay an unspoken assumption. Women who
wanted to write about social issues did it through anecdote. Books that
could only have been written out of an extensive and significant knowl¬
edge of what it meant to be pornographized or sexually colonized — my

MY LIFE AS A WRITER 29

books — were dismissed by patriarchy’s intellectual ruling class as Victo¬
rian or puritanical — empirical synonyms for ignorant.

Instead of using my own experience as the immediate subject of dis¬
course, I used a more complex method of exposing bone and blood: I
found the social phenomena that could be pulled apart to show what I
knew to be the essential heart of the experience — rape, prostitution,
battery, for instance; woman hating, sexualized insult, bias, discrimina¬
tion — and I found the language to carry it: to carry it far, way past
where critics could reach or, frankly, most men could imagine. I had the
luck of having my books last over enough time to reach women — not
elite women but grassroots women and marginalized women. Slowly
women began to come to me to say, yes, that’s right; and I learned more
from them, went deeper. I used writing to take language where women’s
pain was — and womens fear — and I kept excavating for the words that
could bear the burden of speaking the unspeakable: all that hadn’t been
said during the rape or after, while prostituting or after; truths that had
not been said ever or truths that had not been said looking the rapist,
the batterer, the pimp, the citizen-john in the eye. This has been my
contribution to literature and to the women’s movement.

I saw my mother’s strength. Illness seems a visitation, a particular af¬
fliction to test the courage of the stricken person, a personal chal¬
lenge from God. It is hard to know what one can learn from the exam¬
ple even of someone as heroic as my mother surely was. In my mother, I
saw Herculean strength in the face of pain, sickness, incapacitation, and
the unknown. I have never thought that much of it rubbed off, because
I am a coward in that realm: any minor illness makes me feel as if life
has stopped. The heroic person, as I saw from my mother, never accepts
even the suggestion that life might stop. She keeps pulling the burden,
illness as a stone weight; she never stops pulling. Nothing in my
mother’s life suggested that women were wimps.

In school — grade school and college — my female friends were rebels
with deep souls: bad children in adulthood; smart adults in childhood;

30 LIFE AND DEATH

precocious; willful; stubborn; not one age or one sex or with one goal
easily advanced by a conforming marriage and inevitable motherhood.
Despite the best efforts of parents, teachers, to bind our feet Chinese-
style, we kept kicking. Ain’t none of us got out with unbroken feet; we
all got some bones bent in half; we got clipped and pushed and stepped
on hard to make us conform; and in our different ways we kept walk¬
ing, even on the broken bones. It was a time when girls were supposed
to be virgins when we married. The middle-class ideal was that women
were not supposed to work; such labor would reflect badly on our hus¬
bands. Anyone pregnant outside of marriage was an outcast: a delin¬
quent or an exile; had a criminal abortion or birthed a child that would
most likely be taken away from her for adoption, which meant forever
then. In disgrace, she would be sent away to some home for pregnant
girls, entirely stigmatized; her parents ashamed, shocked; she herself a
kind of poison that had ruined the family’s notion of its own goodness
and respectability. She would be socially reprehensible and repulsive —
and the social ostracism would be absolute. I had close friends who re¬
sisted, who never quite gave in, despite appearances to the contrary. The
cost was high sometimes; but it is my impression that my friends, like
most women, paid the highest price when they did give in, not when
they resisted. The cost needs to be spread out over time: the many mar¬
riages and the midlife depression. On the streets there were women who
were both strong and fragile at the same time: immensely strong to bear
the continuing sexual invasion, consistent brutality, and just plain bad
weather (no joke); immensely strong to accept responsibility as the
prostituting persona — I want this, I do this, I am this, ain’t nothin’
hurts me; and much too fragile to face either the cost of prostituting or
its etiology. The cost was physical disintegration and mental splitting
apart. The cost was getting dirtier and lonelier and anesthetizing pain
with more and meaner drugs. The cost was accepting the physical vio¬
lence of the johns, moving through it as if it didn’t matter or hadn’t hap¬
pened, never facing that one had been hurt, then hurt again, nor asking
why. Some girls were straight-out battered and forced. But even without
a violent man in sight, the etiology always had to do with sexual abuse,

MY LIFE AS A WRITER 31

in the present or in the past; also with homelessness and poverty; with
the willingness of men to use any girl for small change; with abandon¬
ment — the personal abandonment of family, the social abandonment
choreographed by the users. It may be harder to face abandonment than
to endure exploitation; and there were no models for articulating the re¬
alities and consequences of sexual abuse. The point of dealing with po¬
litical oppression has never been that the oppressed are by nature weak,
therefore pitiful: the more injustice on one’s back, the stronger one must
be. Strong girls become strong women and use that strength to endure;
but fighting injustice requires a dynamic strength disciplined to resis¬
tance, focused on subverting illegitimate power, eventually to level it. In
a system valuing men over women, girls with piss and vinegar carried a
heavier burden than girls brimming over with sugar and spice; the
stronger were punished more, and still are. In this world, female friend¬
ships, deep and sustained loves, romances and infatuations, also love af¬
fairs, helped keep one’s heart alive, ones sense of self, however unratified
by the larger universe, animated and sensate. The political use of female
strength to change society for the benefit of women is a different choice:
a harder, better choice than endurance, however noble (or stylish) the
endurance.

In my early adult life as a writer, there were three women especially
who helped me and taught me and believed in me: Grace Paley, Barbara
Deming, and Muriel Rukeyser. Each one sort of took me in and took me
to her heart for some significant period of my life. Each one was mother
and sister and friend. Each one was a distinguished and powerful writer,
a social rebel, an original moral thinker. Each lived a life that combined
writing and political action. Each put herself on the line for the op¬
pressed, the powerless; was repelled by exploitation and injustice; and
was devoted to women — had deep and intimate friendships with
women and fought for women’s rights. I met Grace in 1965, shortly
after I got out of the Womens House of Detention. She fed me and gave
me a bed to sleep in; I went to her when I was distressed, exhausted, in
trouble — or more trouble than usual. She helped me when I came back
from Greece; then again later when I came back from Amsterdam. I met

32 LIFE AND DEATH

Barbara in 1965 a few months after I met Grace, on a television program
about the Womens House of Detention, where she too had spent some
time as a political protester (see “Letter to M.,” Lavender Culture , edited
by Jay and Young); and then we met again and became close after
Woman Hating was published. In 1976, my friend John Stoltenberg
(about whom more later) and I went down to Sugarloaf Key in Florida
to live on shared land with Barbara and her lover, Jane Verlaine. I
couldn’t tolerate the subtropical climate so after five months John and I
moved north to the Berkshires. I met Muriel in 1972 after I had re¬
turned to New York City from Amsterdam at an antiwar meeting. She
tried very hard to help me survive as a writer, including by hiring me as
her assistant (see “Introduction,” Letters From a War Zone). My appren¬
ticeship to her had a slightly formal quality, because she paid me for the
duration. She opened her home to me and her heart; she advised me and
counseled me; and she made sure I had a bare minimum of money. She
was attuned to the concrete necessities. A woman who has been poor
and entirely on her own, as Muriel had been, knows that one’s life can
slip through a crack; good intentions can’t match the value of a dime.

These friendships were of enormous importance to me; I doubt I
would have survived without them. But the friendships went far beyond
any utility for survival. Each of these women had faith in me — and I
never quite knew why; and each of these women loved me — and I never
knew why. It was a lucky orphan who found each of these women and it
was a lucky striving writer who found each of these writers. They are all
taken more seriously now than they were then; but I had the good sense
to know that each was an Amerikan original, wise with common sense
and plan talk, gritty with life; they were great craftswomen, each a citi¬
zen and a visionary. I know what I took; I hope I gave enough back.

It is hard to say what keeps a writer writing in the face of discourage¬
ment. It helps to have had a difficult childhood; to have a love of
writing itself, without regard to the outcome; and eventually to have an
audience, however small, that wants you, wants those troublesome

MY LIFE AS A WRITER 33

books, is like a lover to you, very intimate with enormous expecta¬
tions — embraces you through the language you find and the truth you
are willing to tell. I have had that audience, which I meet when I travel
to lecture or to give readings, a U.S. underground unrecognized by the
media in small towns, on college campuses, at political rallies, tender,
luminous, brave women of all ages, and mostly but not exclusively
young men who want fairness for women. They have shown me respect
and love.

One can be derailed by savage reviews, certainly poverty, a ubiquitous
cultural contempt, violent words or violent gestures or violent acts, in¬
visibility as a writer or, in the Amerikan tradition, too much fame or no¬
toriety. My own view is that survival is a matter of random luck: the
right blow, the one that will finish you, does not hit you at the right
time in the right place. I have not made money or had an easy time pub¬
lishing my work, which has been anathematized. I had a hard child¬
hood, which is good; and I have the audience that wants my work,
which is essential; and I love to write regardless of the outcome in pub¬
lishing, which is damned lucky or I’d have died of a broken heart. But
especially I have had the love of John Stoltenberg, with whom I have
lived now for twenty years, and the love and friendship of Elaine Mark-
son, who has been my agent for the past twenty-two years. They are
fierce and brilliant friends. Neither has been intimidated by die anger
against my work or against me. Each has stayed with me when I
thought they would leave or should leave. I love John with my heart and
soul; but what is more extraordinary is the way in which he has loved
me (see his “Living With Andrea Dworkin,” Lambda Book Review,
May/June 1994). I never promised him anything; but he promised me
right from the beginning that he would stay with me for the rest of his
life. I am just entertaining the idea that he might. He undertook to live
the life I needed. He has taken on my hardships as his own; indeed, they
have become his own. We share the circumstances created by the antag¬
onism to my work on Grub Street. We share the politics of radical fem¬
inism and a commitment to destroying male dominance and gender it-

34 LIFE AND DEATH

self. We share a love of writing and of equality; and we share each and
every day. He is a deeply kind person, and it is through the actual daili-
ness of living with him that I understand the spiritual poverty and the
sensual stupidity of eroticizing brutality over kindness. Elaine has been
a loyal friend and colleague in circumstances both complex and diffi¬
cult. She has stayed loyal to me and to my work through years when she
didn’t make enough in commissions to cover the postage she spent
sending out my manuscripts. Pornographers and their flunkies have
tried to bully and intimidate her; so have publishers, as if silencing me
would further freedom of speech. She has kept sending out manuscripts
of mine for years as publishers stubbornly refused them. It was she who
finally made it possible for me to publish my work in England when
U.S. publishers were a dead end. Ice and Fire , published by Seeker &
Warburg in the United Kingdom in 1986, was the first of several books
to have widespread British distribution while remaining unsold in the
U.S. I had written a good first draft in 1983, which Elaine tried to sell
in the U.S., then a final version in 1984. Ice and Fire was finally pub¬
lished here in 1987 — by an English company — but was never brought
out in a paperback edition. The paperback is still in print in England.
These are trying difficulties that no slick, money-driven agent would
tolerate. Elaine will tell you that she doesn’t always agree with me; but
why should she — and why should anyone assume that she does? The as¬
sumption comes from the lazy but popular stigmatizing ploy of guilt by
association, a form of hysteria that pervades any discussion of me or my
work in publishing circles. She refuses to give in to this discrediting
ruse. Her faith in me has sometimes had to stand in for my faith in my¬
self: I have become shaky but she stands firm. Many times, in the quiet
of the room where I work, I have had to face the fact that I would not
still be writing — given how hard the hard times have been — were it not
for Elaine’s passionate commitment and integrity. We’ve walked many
miles together.

So the right blow may still strike in the right place at exactly the right
time: to break my writer’s heart and stop me in my tracks. I do believe
that survival is random, not a result of virtue or talent. But so far, espe-

MY LIFE AS A WRITER 35

dally in knowing John and Elaine, I have been blessed with monumen¬
tal grace and staggering good luck.

On April 30, 1992, at the age of forty-two, my brother Mark died
of cancer. This was exactly eighteen years after the publication
date of Woman Hating, an anniversary that will never make me happy
again.

He was living in Vienna when he died, a molecular biologist, married
to his wife of ten years, Eva Rastl, also a molecular biologist, forty at the
time of his death.

He was chair of the department of molecular biology at the Ernst
Boehringer Institute of Vienna. He and Eva worked together there and
also earlier at Columbia University in New York City. He had done post¬
doctoral work in biochemistry at the Carnegie Institution in Baltimore,
the National Cancer Institute in Bethesda, and the University of Califor¬
nia at Davis. At the time Mark got ill, he and Eva were doing research on
the metabolism of cancer cells. They were wonderful together, sharing
love, friendship, and work. She, a Catholic from Austria, he, Jewish,
born in Camden in 1949, reconciled cultural differences and historical
sorrow through personal love, the recognition of each other as individu¬
als, and the exercise of reason, which they both, as scientists, valued. A
belief in reason was key to a world view that they had in common.

When my brother died, part of me died. This is not hyperbole or
cliche. I could feel some of the light that is life going dead inside me and
when he died, it went out. He was a gentle boy, the one life I knew from
infancy. I had a utopian memory of loving him, a kind of ecstatic love
for him that was nonverbal, inexplicable, untouched by growing older.
Although we were separated from the time I left home to go to col¬
lege — there was a period of eleven years when I didn’t see him at all, al¬
though we wrote each other — the closeness of early childhood never
changed, his emotional importance to me, mine to him. But he didnt
remember his early childhood or his later childhood; he didn’t remem¬
ber anything from childhood. This terrified me. Because we had usually
been sent to stay at separate places when my mother was ill, I had no

36 LIFE AND DEATH

idea what might have happened to him. As an adult, he had recurrent
nightmares that he couldn’t understand. I was able to explain or identify
the elements of one of them for him. He saw a big man dressed in black
carrying a black bag and coming into the house at night — then he woke
up in fear. This was my mother’s doctor, a cold, frightening figure. I al¬
ways thought of him as death but I did know who he was. My brother
didn’t. The childhood years were still blank when he died.

He was the kind child, the nurturer of my parents. As they grew
older, he took care of them, with his company, his true concern. My
mother died a year before Mark, and I don’t believe he recovered from
her death before his own. Like my father, like John, he was a good and
giving man.

I saw him about three weeks before he died. He had asked me to
come to Vienna in October 1 990 to visit. I didn’t want to go to Austria
ever, but put these feelings aside to see him. Told in November 1991 he
had cancer, he submitted to a major operation in which a large part of
his esophagus near his stomach was removed. He recovered from the
surgery but lost the use of his larynx. There were signs that the malig¬
nant cells had spread. I found myself the bearer of this knowledge, a
confidant for Eva, the one who had to keep my father hoping and even¬
tually the one who had to tell him that Mark would die soon, probably
within a few days. In our childhood, Mark and I had learned to be alone
with our troubles whatever they were. Mark undertook to die the same
way. Eva was with him and they were close, tender, inseparable; but he
didn’t want family or friends to make the journey to see him. I told him
that I was coming to Vienna and he didn’t have to see me but I would
be there; I had made the arrangements. I believe he was glad, but he got
sicker much faster than he or Eva or I anticipated. When I went he was
unbearably ill. He had asked me to bring him Skippy peanut butter,
which was our staple as children. He was starving to death, a not un¬
usual effect of cancer, and so Eva and I hoped he would eat it. But he
couldn’t. I also took him marbles, especially cats’ eyes, which we had
played with when we were children. Marbles and bottlecaps were cur¬
rency among the kids in our neighborhood. Once he had stolen all

MY LIFE AS A WRITER 37

mine and my mother had let him keep them because he was a boy —
they were boys’ wealth, not girls’. He smiled when I told him but I don’t
think he remembered. He kept the marbles near him.

I sat with him during the day for as long as he would let me. Some¬
times he could whisper — it was air, not sound, shaped by his mouth.
But sometimes he was too weak for that, and I sat at a table in the same
room — a modern living room with a large picture window that looked
out on trees and bushes, a room filled with daylight — and read, or tried
to read. I think it was only after he died and Eva sent me some pho¬
tographs of him from those days of my visit that I realized how frail he
had been, how much I hadn’t seen — how hard it had been for him to
appear clean and groomed and calm and smiling. The cancer had spread
to his liver. Tumors were growing on his neck, which he kept covered,
and on other parts of his body.

Then I’d go back to my hotel and I would wail; I’d scream and cry
and wail. I would call John — it would still be late afternoon in Vienna,
too expensive to call — and I’d howl and keen and cry wildly, again and
again, until I was worn out. Then I’d take a walk in the park across from
my hotel. The cold air would be bracing, and my head would stop hurt¬
ing. Then I would return to my room and sit down to write. I had
brought a legal pad with me and also an article that John Irving had re¬
cently published in The New York Times Book Review castigating femi¬
nists for opposing pornography, charging that we were purveyors of a
new puritanism (see John Irving, “Pornography and the New Puritans,”
March 29, 1992). I knew that to survive the pain I felt on seeing my
brother dying I would have to find a way to use the pain. I truly thought
that otherwise it would kill me. I decided, coldly and purposefully, to
confront the most painful theme in my own life — repeated sexual
abuse. The logic of my answer to Mr. Irving was that no one with the
kind of experience I had could be called a puritan; and maybe I and
other women actually knew more about sexual violence than he did;
and it was the pornographers, not feminists, who punished women in
the public square, as puritans had, for being sexual. The narrative was a
first-person detailed telling of rapes and assaults (see The New York

38 LIFE AND DEATH

Times Book Review, May 3, 1992). The day my piece was published as a
nearly full-page letter edited from the article I had intended, my father
and I were on a plane to Vienna to bury Mark at the Central Cemetery.
The chief rabbi of Vienna conducted the service. My father simply re¬
fused to sit with the men, as is Orthodox practice, and sat with Eva and
me. My brother wasn’t religious but he loved walking in that great Eu¬
ropean graveyard. He was someone who walked miles for pleasure; and
the Central Cemetery, miles from where he lived, had been one of his
favorite places to walk to, then wander in. What does a man with no
memory of childhood think of on long, solitary walks to the civilized,
well-tended graves of the Austrians, the abandoned, overgrown graves of
the Jews? My brother had taken me there on my first trip to Vienna — he
had wanted me to see this place that was special to him. I had reacted
with horror to the sight of the neglected Jewish graves, the latest stone I
saw dated 1938. On my 1992 trip back to Vienna when Mark was sick,
I saw on television that the mayor of Vienna had just made a speech ac-
knowledging the importance of Jews, always, to life in Vienna, to its
greatness as a city, and that a committee of non-Jewish Austrians was
trying to make some restitution by cleaning up the abandoned graves
and trying to find out what had happened to the families. Because of
this change, we felt able to bury Mark in the Central Cemetery, in the
contemporary Jewish burial ground, where he could rest near Eva,
though she cannot be buried with him. 1 have gone back to visit his
grave. Eva says it has helped her to have Mark buried there.

I am less alive because I lost my brother. Yet I used what I felt while I
watched him dying to write something I considered necessary. I think
this is a deep and perhaps terrible truth about writing. Surely, it is a
deep and terrible truth about me. As long as I can, I will take what I
feel, use it to face what I am able to know, find language, and write what
I think must be written for the freedom and dignity of women.

EMERGENCIES

IN MEMORY OF
NICOLE BROWN SIMPSON

I. BEFORE THE TRIAL
Its the Perpetrator ; Stupid

You wont ever know the worst that happened to Nicole Brown Simp¬
son in her marriage, because she is dead and cannot tell you. And if she
were alive, remember, you wouldn’t believe her.

You heard Lorena Bobbitt, after John Wayne Bobbitt had been ac¬
quitted of marital rape. At her own trial for malicious wounding, she
described beatings, anal rape, humiliation. She had been persistently in¬
jured, hit, choked by a husband who liked hurting her. John Wayne
Bobbitt, after a brief tour as a misogynist-media star, beat up a new
woman friend.

It is always the same. It happens to women as different as Nicole
Simpson, Lorena Bobbitt — and me. The perpetrators are men as differ¬
ent as O .J. Simpson, John Wayne Bobbitt, and the former flower-child
I am still too afraid to name.

There is terror, yes, and physical pain. There is desperation and de¬
spair. One blames oneself, forgives him. One judges oneself harshly for
not loving him enough. “Its your fault,” he shouts as he is battering in
the door, or slamming your head against the floor. And before you pass

41

42 LIFE AND DEATH

out, you say yes. You run, but no one will hide you or stand up for
you — which means standing up to him. You will hide behind bushes if
there are bushes; or behind trash cans; or in alleys; away from the decent
people who aren’t helping you. It is, after all, your fault.

He hurts you more: more than last time and more than you ever
thought possible; certainly more than any reasonable person would ever
believe — should you be foolish enough to tell. And, eventually, you sur¬
render to him, apologize, beg him to forgive you for hurting him or
provoking him or insulting him or being careless with something of
his — his laundry, his car, his meal. You ask him not to hurt you as he
does what he wants to you.

The shame of this physical capitulation, often sexual, and the be¬
trayal of your self-respect will never leave you. You will blame yourself
and hate yourself forever. In your mind, you will remember yourself —
begging, abject. At some point, you will stand up to him verbally, or by
not complying, and he will hit you and kick you; he may rape you; he
may lock you up or tie you up. The violence becomes contextual, the el¬
ement in which you try to survive.

You will try to run away, plan an escape. If he finds out, or if he finds
you, he will hurt you more. You will be so frightened you think dying
might be okay.

If you have no money, can’t find shelter, have no work, you will go
back and ask him to let you in. If you work, he will find you. He may ask
you back and make promises filled with repentance. He may beat you
and force you back. But if you do stay away and make a break, he will
strike out of nowhere, still beat you, vandalize your home, stalk you.

Still, no one stops him. You aren’t his wife anymore, and he still gets
to do it.

Nicole Simpson, like every battered woman, knew she would not be
believed. She may have been shrewd enough to anticipate the crowds
along the Orange County freeways cheering on O.J. Every battered
woman has to be careful, even with strangers. His friends won’t stop
him. Neither will yours.

Nicole Simpson went to many experts on domestic violence for help

IN MEMORY OF NICOLE BROWN SIMPSON 43

but none of them stopped him. That’s what it takes: the batterer has to
be stopped. He will not stop himself. He has to be imprisoned, or
killed, or she has to escape and hide, sometimes for the rest of her life,
sometimes until he finds another woman to “love.” There is no proof
that counseling the batterer stops him.

It was Nicole who asked the police to arrest Simpson in 1989, the
ninth time the police had been called. Arrest needs to be mandatory.
The 1989 assault on Nicole Simpson should have resulted in O.J.
Simpson’s ninth arrest. We don’t know by what factor to multiply the
number nine: how many episodes of being beaten women endure, on
average, per phone call to the police. In 1993 alone, there were 300,000
domestic violence calls to the police in New York City.

Wife-beating is not Amerikas dirty little secret, as the press and
Health and Human Services Secretary Donna Shalala say. Feminists have
spent two decades exposing wife abuse with insistence and accuracy, or¬
ganizing refuges and escape routes and changing law enforcement prac¬
tices so that, increasingly, wife-beating is recognized as a violent crime.

Wife-beating is commonplace and ordinary because men believe they
have rights over women that women dispute. The control men want of
women, the domination men require over women, is expressed in this
terrible brutality. For me, it was for a four-year period, twenty-five years
ago in another country. For 4 million women in the United States, one
every fifteen seconds, it was yesterday and today.

What no one will face is this: the problem is not with the woman; it
is with the perpetrator. She can change every weakness, transform every
dependency. She can escape with the bravado of a Jesse James or the
subtle skill of a Houdini. But if the husband is committed to violence
and she is not, she cannot win her safety or her freedom. The current
legal system, victim advocates, counseling cannot keep her safe in the
face of his aggression.

Accounts of wife-beating have typically been met with incredulity
and disdain, best expressed in the persistent question, “ Why doesn't she
leave?" But after two decades of learning about battery, we now know
that more battered women are killed after they leave than before.

44 LIFE AND DEATH

Nicole Simpson was living in her own home when she was murdered.
Her divorce had been finalized in 1992. Whether or not her ex-husband
committed the murder, he did continue to assault her, threaten her,
stalk her, intimidate her. His so-called desire for reconciliation masks
the awfulness of her situation, the same for every woman who escapes
but does not disappear. Having ended the marriage, Nicole Simpson
still had to negotiate her safety with the man who was hurting her.

She had to avoid angering him. Any hint that her amiability was es¬
sentially coerced, any threat of public exposure, any insult to his dignity
from his point of view, might trigger aggression. This cause-and-effect
scenario is more imagined than real, since the perpetrator chooses when
he will hurt or threaten or stalk. Still, the woman tries. All the smiling
photographs of them together after the divorce should evoke alarm, not
romantic descriptions of his desire to reconcile. Nicole Simpson fol¬
lowed a strategy of appeasement, because no one stood between her and
him to stop him.

Escape, in fact, is hell, a period of indeterminate length reckoned in
years, not months, when the ex-husband commits assaults intermit¬
tently and acts of terrorism with some consistency. Part of the torment
is that freedom is near but he will not let the woman have it. Many es¬
caped women live half in hiding. I am still afraid of my ex-husband each
and every day of my life — and I am not afraid of much.

Maybe you don’t know how brave women are — the ones who have
stayed until now and the ones who have escaped, both the living and the
dead. Nicole Simpson is the hero. The perpetrator is the problem, stupid.

II. DURING THE TRIAL
In Nicole Brown Simpsons Words

Words matter. O.J. Simpsons defense team asked Judge Lance A. Ito to
order the prosecution to say domestic discord rather than domestic vio¬
lence or even spousal abuse — already euphemisms for wife-beating — and
to disallow the words battered wife and stalker. Ito refused to alter reality
by altering language but some media complied — for example, Rivera

IN MEMORY OF NICOLE BROWN SIMPSON 45

Live , where domestic discord became a new term of art. The lawyer who
successfully defended William Kennedy Smith on a rape charge also
used that term systematically.

Where is the victims voice? Where are her words? ‘Tm scared/’
Nicole Brown told her mother a few months before she was killed. “I go
to the gas station, he’s there. I go to the Payless Shoe Store, and he’s
there. I’m driving, and he’s behind me.”

Nicole’s ordinary words of fear, despair, and terror told to friends, and
concrete descriptions of physical attacks recorded in her diary, are being
kept from the jury. Insignificant when she was alive — because they didn’t
save her — the victim’s words remain insignificant in death: excluded
from the trial of her accused murderer, called “hearsay” and not admissi¬
ble in a legal system that has consistently protected or ignored the beat¬
ing and sexual abuse of women by men, especially by husbands.

Nicole called a battered-women’s shelter five days before her death.
The jury will not have to listen — but we must. Evidence of the attacks
on her by Simpson that were witnessed in public will be allowed at trial.
But most of what a batterer does is in private. The worst beatings, the
sustained acts of sadism, have no witnesses. Only she knows. To refuse
to listen to Nicole Brown Simpson is to refuse to know.

There was a time when the law, including the FBI, and social scientists
maintained that wife-beating did not exist in the United States. .Eventu¬
ally the FBI did estimate that a woman is beaten every fifteen seconds in
the U.S., and the Justice Department concluded the same in 1984.

Such a change happens this way. First, there is a terrible and intimi¬
dating silence — it can last centuries. Inside that silence, men have a
legal or a tacit right to beat their wives. Then, with the support of a
strong political movement, victims of the abuse speak out about what
has been done to them and by whom. They break the silence. One day,
enough victims have spoken — sometimes in words, sometimes by run¬
ning away or seeking refuge or striking back or killing in self-defense —
that they can be counted and studied: social scientists find a pattern of
injury and experts describe it.

The words of experts matter. They are listened to respectfully, are

46 LIFE AND DEATH

often paid to give evidence in legal cases. Meanwhile, the voice of the
victim still has no social standing or legal significance. She still has no
credibility such that each of us — and the law — is compelled to help her.

We blame her, as the batterer did. We ask why she stayed, though we,
of course, were not prepared to stand between her and the batterer so
that she could leave. And if, after she is dead, we tell the police that we
heard the accused murderer beat her in 1977, and saw her with black
eyes — as Nicole’s neighbors did — we will not be allowed to testify,
which may be the only justice in this, since it has taken us seventeen
years to bother to speak at all. I had such neighbors.

Every battered woman learns early on not to expect help. A battered
woman confides in someone, when she does, to leave a trail. She over¬
comes her fear of triggering violence in the batterer if he finds out that
she has spoken in order to leave a verbal marker somewhere, with some¬
one. She thinks the other persons word will be believed later.

Every battered woman faces death more than once, and each time the
chance is real: the batterer decides. Eventually, shes fractured inside by
the continuing degradation and her emotional world is a landscape of
desperation. Of course, she smiles in public and is a good wife. He in¬
sists — and so do we.

The desperation is part fear — fear of pain, fear of dying — and part
isolation, a brutal aloneness, because everything has failed — every call
for help to anyone, every assumption about love, every hope for self-re¬
spect and even a shred of dignity. What dignity is there, after all, in con¬
fessing, as Nicole did in her diary, that O.J. started beating her on a
street in New York and, in their hotel room, “continued to beat me for
hours as I kept crawling for the door.” He kept hitting her while sexu¬
ally using her, which is rape — because no meaningful consent is possible
or plausible in the context of this violence.

Every battered womans life has in it many rapes like this one. Some¬
times, one complies without the overt violence but in fear of it. Or
sometimes, one initiates sex to try to stop or head off a beating. Of
course, there are also the so-called good times — when romance over¬
comes the memory of violence. Both the violation and the complicity

IN MEMORY OF NICOLE BROWN SIMPSON 47

make one deeply ashamed. The shame is corrosive. Whatever the bat¬
terer left, it attacks. Why would one tell? How can one face it?

Those of us who are not jurors have a moral obligation to listen to
Nicole Simpsons words: to how O.J. Simpson locked her in a wine closet
after beating her and watched TV while she begged him to let her out; to
how, in a different hotel room, “O.J. threw me against the walls . . . and
on the floor. Put bruises on my arm and back. The window scared me.
Thought he’d throw me out.” We need to hear how he “threw a fit,
chased me, grabbed me, threw me into walls. Threw all my clothes out of
the window into the street three floors below. Bruised me.” We need to
hear how he stalked her after their divorce. “Everywhere I go,” she told a
friend, “he shows up. I really think he is going to kill me.”

We need, especially, to hear her call to a battered-women s shelter five
days before her murder. In ruling that call inadmissible, Ito said: “To
the man or woman on the street, the relevance and probative value of
such evidence is both obvious and compelling. . . . However, the laws
and appellate-court decisions that must be applied . . . held otherwise.”
The man and woman on the street need to hear what was obvious to
her: the foreknowledge that death was stalking her.

We need to believe Nicole s words to know the meaning of terror — it
isnt a movie of the week — and to face the treason we committed against
her life by abandoning her.

When I was being beaten by a shrewd and dangerous man twenty-five
years ago, I was buried alive in a silence that was unbreachable and unbear¬
able. Imagine Nicole being buried alive, then dead, in noise — our pro¬
woman, pro-equality noise; or our pro-family, pro— law-and-order noise.
For what its worth — to Nicole nothing — the shame of battery is all ours.

III. AFTER THE ACQUITTAL
Domestic Violence: Trying to Flee

Five days before Nicole Brown Simpson was murdered on June 12,
1994, she called a battered womens shelter in terror that her ex-hus-
band was going to kill her. The jury was not told this, because she

48 LIFE AND DEATH

couldn’t be cross-examined. Guess not. Most of the rest of the evidence
of beating and stalking, from 1977 to May 1994, was also excluded.

O.J. Simpson had stalked her not once, as represented to the jury,
but over at least a two-year period. Prosecutors had been permitted to
introduce seven incidents of stalking, but they chose to admit only one
into evidence. The jury, predominantly women, was not responding to
the wife abuse evidence, said observers. In fact, during an interview late
last week, one woman juror called the domestic abuse issue “a waste of
time.” Polls during the trial confirmed women were indifferent to the
beatings Nicole Simpson endured.

As a woman who escaped an assassin husband and is still haunted by
fear and flashbacks, I agreed with Deputy District Attorney Christopher
A. Darden that, in 1989, Nicole Simpson knew someday her husband
would kill her. She’d told many people, including her sister, Denise, that
he’d kill her and get away with it. In fact, you can take a battered
womans knowledge of her abusers capacity to inflict harm and evade
consequences to the bank.

But five days before Nicole Simpson was murdered, she knew, for
sure, she would die. How? Why? Something had happened: a con¬
frontation, a threatening phone call, an unwanted visit, an aggressive act
from Simpson directed at her. She told no one, because, after seventeen
years of torment, she knew there was no one to tell. The police virtually
everywhere ignore assault against women by their male intimates, so
that any husband can be a brutal cop with tacit state protection; in Los
Angeles, the police visited Nicole Simpson’s abuser at home as fans.

Remember the video showing Simpson, after the ballet recital, with
the Brown family — introduced by the defense to show Simpson’s pleas¬
ant demeanor. Hours later, Nicole Simpson was dead. In the video, she
is as far from Simpson, physically, as she can manage. He does not nod
or gesture to her. He kisses her mother, embraces and kisses her sister,
and bear-hugs her father. They all reciprocate. She must have been the
loneliest woman in the world.

What would Nicole Simpson have had to do to be safe? Go under¬
ground, change her appearance and identity, get cash without leaving a

IN MEMORY OF NICOLE BROWN SIMPSON 49

trail, take her children and run — all within days of her call to the shel¬
ter. She would have had to end all communication with family and
friends, without explanation, for years, as well as leave her home and
everything familiar.

With this abuser’s wealth and power, he would have had her hunted
down; a dream team of lawyers would have taken her children from her.
She would have been the villain — reckless, a slut, reviled for stealing the
children of a hero. If his abuse of her is of no consequence now that
she’s been murdered, how irrelevant would it have been as she, resource¬
less, tried to make a court and the public understand that she needed to
run for her life?

Nicole Simpson knew she couldn’t prevail, and she didn’t try. Instead
of running, she did what the therapists said: be firm, draw a line. So she
drew the sort of line they meant: he could come to the recital but not sit
with her or go to dinner with her family — a line that was no defense
against death. Believing he would kill her, she did what most battered
women do: kept up the appearance of normality. There was no equal
justice for her, no self-defense she felt entitled to. Society had already
left her to die.

On the same day the police who beat Rodney G. King were acquitted
in Simi Valley, a white husband who had raped, beaten, and tortured his
wife, also white, was acquitted of marital rape in South Carolina. He
had kept her tied to a bed for hours, her mouth gagged with adhesive
tape. He videotaped a half hour of her ordeal, during which he cut her
breasts with a knife. The jury, which saw the videotape, had eight
women on it. Asked why they acquitted, they said he needed help. They
looked right through the victim — afraid to recognize any part of them¬
selves, shamed by her violation. There were no riots afterward.

The governing reality for women of all races is that there is no escape
from male violence, because it is inside and outside, intimate and preda¬
tory. While race-hate has been expressed through forced segregation,
woman-hate is expressed through forced closeness, which makes pun¬
ishment swift, easy, and sure. In private, women often empathize with
one another, across race and class, because their experiences with men

50 LIFE AND DEATH

are so much the same. But in public, including on juries, women rarely
dare. For this reason, no matter how many women are battered — no
matter how many football stadiums battered women could fill on any
given day — each one is alone.

Surrounded by family, friends, and a community of affluent acquain¬
tances, Nicole Simpson was alone. Having turned to police, prosecu¬
tors, victim’s aid, therapists, and a womens shelter, she was still alone.
Ronald L. Goldman may have been the only person in seventeen years
with the courage to try to intervene physically in an attack on her; and
he’s dead, killed by the same hand that killed her, an expensively gloved,
extra-large hand.

Though the legal system has mostly consoled and protected batterers,
when a woman is being beaten, its the batterer who has to be stopped;
as Malcolm X used to say, “by any means necessary” — a principle
women, all women, had better learn. A woman has a right to her own
bed, a home she can’t be thrown out of, and for her body not to be ran¬
sacked and broken into. She has a right to safe refuge, to expect her fam¬
ily and friends to stop the batterer — by law or force — before shes dead.
She has a constitutional right to a gun and a legal right to kill if she be¬
lieves she’s going to be killed. And a batterers repeated assaults should
lawfully be taken as intent to kill.

Everybody’s against wife abuse, but who’s prepared to stop it?

LIVING IN TERROR, PAIN

Being a Battered Wife

On November 1, 1987, Joel Steinberg, a criminal defense lawyer,
beat his illegally adopted daughter, Lisa, into a coma. She died
November 5. Hedda Nussbaum, who had lived with Steinberg since
1976, was also in the apartment. Her face and body were deformed
from his assaults, she had a gangrenous leg from his beatings. With six-
year-old Lisa lying on the bathroom floor, Steinberg went out for dinner
and drinks. Nussbaum stayed behind. When Steinberg came home, he
and Nussbaum freebased cocaine. Early the next day, Lisa stopped
breathing and Nussbaum called 911. She was arrested with Steinberg,
then given immunity for testifying against him.

Steinberg had started beating Nussbaum in 1978. In that year alone,
she reportedly suffered at least ten black eyes. In 1981, he ruptured her
spleen. During this time, she worked as a children’s book editor at Ran¬
dom House. She was fired in 1982 for missing too much work. Socially
speaking, she was “disappeared.”

Many say Lisa’s death is Nussbaum’s fault. They mourn Lisa; they
blame Nussbaum. A perception is growing that Nussbaum is respons¬
ible legally and morally for the death of Lisa Steinberg.

I don’t think Nussbaum is “innocent.” I don’t know any innocent adult
women; life is harder than that for everyone. But adult women who have

51

52 L J F E AND DEATH

been battered are especially not innocent. Battery is a forced descent into
hell and you don’t get by in hell by moral goodness. You disintegrate. You
don’t survive as a discrete personality with a sense of right and wrong. You
live in a world of pain, in isolation, on the verge of death, in terror; and
when you get numb enough not to care whether you live or die you are
experiencing the only grace God is going to send your way. Drugs help.

I was battered when I was married and there are some things I wish
people would understand. I thought things had changed but it is clear
from the story of Hedda Nussbaum that nothing has.

Your neighbors hear you screaming. They do nothing. The next day
they look through you. If you scream for years they will look through
you for years. Your neighbors, friends, and family see the bruises and in¬
juries — and do nothing. They will not intercede. They send you back.
They say it’s your fault or you like it or they deny it is happening. Your
family believes you belong with your husband.

If you scream and no one helps and no one acknowledges it and peo¬
ple look right through you, you begin to feel you don’t exist. If you ex¬
isted and you screamed, someone would help you. If you existed and
were visibly injured, someone would help you. If you existed and asked
for help in escaping, someone would help you.

When you go to the doctor or to the hospital because you are injured
and they don’t listen or help you or they give you tranquilizers or
threaten to commit you because they say you are disoriented, paranoid,
you begin to believe that he can hurt you as much as he wants and no
one will help you. When the police refuse to help you, you begin to be¬
lieve that he can hurt you or kill you and it will not matter because you
do not exist.

You become unable to use language because it stops meaning any¬
thing. If you try to say you have been hurt and by whom and you point
to visible injuries and are treated as if you made it up or as if it doesn’t
matter or as if it is your fault or as if you are worthless, you become
afraid to say anything. You cannot talk to anyone because they will not
help you and if you do talk, the man who is battering you will hurt you
more. Once you lose language, your isolation is absolute.

LIVING IN TERROR, PAIN 53

Eventually I waited to die. I wanted to die. I hoped the next beating
would kill me. When I would come to after being beaten unconscious,
the first feeling I had was a sorrow that I was alive.

I would ask God to let me die now. My breasts were burned with lit
cigarettes. My husband beat my legs with a wood beam so that I
couldn’t walk. I was present when he did immoral things to other peo¬
ple. When he hurt other people, I didn’t help them. Nussbaum’s guilt is
not foreign to me.

A junkie said he would give me a ticket to far away and $1,000 if I
would carry a briefcase through customs. I said I would. I knew it had
heroin in it. I kept hoping I would be caught and sent to jail because in
jail he couldn’t beat me.

I had been sexually abused in the Women’s House of Detention in
New York City (arrested for an anti— Vietnam War demonstration), so I
didn’t have the idea that jail was a friendly place. I just hoped I would
get five years and for five years I could sit in a jail cell and not be hit by
him. In the end the junkie didn’t give me the briefcase to carry, so I
didn’t get the $1,000. He did kindly give me the ticket, 1 stole the
money I needed. Escape is heroic, isn’t it?

I’ve been living with a kind and gentle man I love for the last fifteen
years. For eight of those years, I would wake up screaming in blind ter¬
ror, not knowing who I was, where I was, who he was, cowering and
shaking. I’m more at peace now, but I’ve refused until recently to have
my books published in the country where my former husband lives, and
I’ve refused important professional invitations to go there. Once I went
there in secret for four days to try to face it down. I couldn’t stop trem¬
bling and sweating. I could barely breathe. There still isn’t a day when I
don’t feel fear that I will see him and he will hurt me.

Death looks different to a woman who has been battered. It seems
not nearly so cruel as life. I’m upset by the phony mourning for Lisa
Steinberg — the hypocritical sentimentality of a society that would not
really mind her being beaten to death once she was an adult.

If Lisa hadn’t died, she would be on West Tenth Street being tor¬
tured — now. Why was it that we wanted her to live? So that when the

54 LIFE AND DEATH

child became a woman and then was raped or beaten or prostituted we
could look right through her? Its bad to hit a girl before she’s of age. Its
bad to torture a girl before she’s of age. Then she’s of age and, well, it
isn’t so bad, because she wants it, she likes it, she chose it.

Why is it all right to hurt adult women? Those who love children but
don’t think adult women deserve much precisely because we are not in¬
nocent — we are used and compromised and culpable — should try to re¬
member this: the only way to have helped Lisa Steinberg was to have
helped Nussbaum. But to do it, you would have had to care that an
adult woman was being hurt — care enough to rescue her.

There was a little boy there too, Mitchell, seventeen months old, tied
up and covered in feces. And the only way to have spared him was to
rescue Hedda. Now he has been tortured and he did not die. What kind
of man will he grow up to be? I wish there was a way to take the hurt
from him. There isn’t. Is there a way to stop him from becoming a bat¬
terer? Is there?

THE THIRD RAPE

Rape victims find courtrooms are dangerous places — so most avoid
them. Nine of ten rapes go unreported. For those that go to trial,
annihilating the victim — through insult, innuendo, intimidation,
forced repetition of every detail, the pressure of continuing public hu¬
miliation before family, friends, coworkers — is still the rapist s best
chance for acquittal; and acquittal is the usual outcome. Feminists call
the trial “the second rape.”

Now, thanks to The New York Times and NBC News, both of which
identified by name the victim in the William Kennedy Smith rape trial,
there will be a third rape — by the media. If a woman s reporting a rape
to the police means she will be exposed by the media to the scrutiny of
voyeurs and worse, a sexual spectacle with her legs splayed open in the
public mind, reporting itself will be tantamount to suicide. Because of
my own experience with sexual abuse and media exposure, I know the
consequences are unbearable.

In February 1965, 1 was arrested at an anti— Vietnam War demonstra¬
tion in New York City. I was imprisoned in the Women s House of De¬
tention for four days before a judge released me on my own recog¬
nizance.

In the jail, all the orifices of my body, including mouth, vagina, and

55

56 LIFE AND DEATH

rectum, were searched many times, by hand, by many persons. I was
told the jailers were looking for heroin. My clothes were taken away be¬
cause I was wearing pants and a men’s sweatshirt. Only dresses were al¬
lowed in that house of rectitude.

I was given a flimsy robe that had no buttons or hooks — there was no
way to close it. My bra, underpants, and the sash to the robe were taken
away so I wouldn’t kill myself. For four days, I had nothing else to wear.

To see whether I had syphilis, I was examined by two male doctors.
They never did the blood test for syphilis; instead, they drew blood
from my vagina. The brutal internal examination they forced on me,
my first, caused me to bleed for fifteen days — when I finally decided it
wasn’t my period. My family doctor, a taciturn man whom I had never
seen express emotion, even as he treated my mother’s heart attacks,
strokes, and experimental heart surgery, said he had never seen a uterus
so bruised or a vagina so ripped. He cried. I was eighteen.

I came out of jail unable to speak. This is a frequent response to sex¬
ual abuse — but in 1965 no one knew that. Sexual abuse wasn’t on any¬
one’s map of the everyday world until feminists redrew the map.

I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t stop bleeding, I didn’t know what they had
done to me. The men I worked with against the war laughed at me — a
girl struck dumb. But they knew someone had stuck something up me
and they figured I deserved it. I lived with two men. They said I was
sick and unclean — they thought the bleeding was some sexual disease —
and they threw me out. My mother said I was an “animal,” and my par¬
ents threw me out.

The writer Grace Paley took me in, in a sense taught me how to
speak again by forcing me to tell her what had happened, convinced me
that speaking was right by believing me. So I spoke out. I wrote The
New York Times and the New York Post. I went through the Yellow Pages
and wrote every newspaper listed. I wanted the prison torn down. I
wrote a graphic letter — after all, I didn’t know the word “speculum,”
and it was a speculum that had done most of the ripping.

I had a scholarship to Bennington College — this happened during
the work term of my first year. The papers liked that: Bennington Girl

THE THIRD RAPE 57

Brutalized in Internal Examination in Womens Prison. The doctors had
liked it, too. During the assault, they joked about how they liked to go
up to Bennington to find girls. Newspapers and rapists tend to find the
same facts compelling.

I went to the newspapers because I was an idealist who wanted to
stop prison abuses. I believed in sexual liberation, birth control, and
abortion as a right. I believed in ending poverty, racism, and war. I loved
reading and I wanted to be a writer. I’m not cynical now and I wasn’t
then; but I had had a tough childhood. I had learned to take a lot of
pain and to do what was necessary to stay alive, including stealing food
when I was hungry.

I had been raped twice before. No one used the word “rape.” The
first time I was nine; my parents didn’t report it. The second time, a
month before the jail incident, was what is now called “acquaintance
rape.” Yes, I fought; yes, he beat me; yes, he hurt me, and no, I never
told anyone. Yes, there was blood; yes, there were bruises; but the un¬
speakable physical pain was between the legs — the rape part. Women
are human down there, too.

After I went to the newspapers, I learned a new kind of hell. I didn’t
know that the facts about my imprisonment were sexually arousing — to
me they were an anguish. I didn’t know that in the public eye I became
living pornography for men who liked to watch a frightened girl tell the
story. I got hundreds of obscene letters from men, taunting, obsessive
letters. The man would say what he wanted to do to me or what he was
going to do to me when he came and got me and how he masturbated
to what the prison doctors had done. The man would describe my gen¬
itals or threaten me with detailed sexual assault.

Each day there was another stack of letters. Every day I’d get person-
to-person obscene phone calls from men all over the country. I was a
student now, back at school. There were cameras everywhere I went. My
name was everywhere.

This was when there were still standards, limits, protections — the
media followed some rules. A constitutional lawyer wrote a letter for me
that stopped someone from making a sensationalist film based on “my”

58 LIFE AND DEATH

story. But when I asked newspapers to leave me alone — when I explained
that I was a student and had a paper due, for example — I was threatened:
we will use a telescopic lens, we can see every move you make.

For months, I was followed nearly all the time. I would expect the
frenzy to die down but it would only intensify. The women who lived in
my dorm started screening my mail and phone calls. Nothing helped
me stop shaking.

Investigations into conditions at the jail continued and I had to go to
New York repeatedly to testify. People would run after me on the streets.
I didn’t have money for taxis. I’d run into the subway to escape and find
myself trapped by a crowd, unable to get aboveground. Men ap¬
proached me to offer safe passage. Within a few seconds, it was clear
they were sexually excited by the public narrative of my abuse — theyd
start talking about vaginal bruises and how they would like to rub their
penises up against them.

I left school and I left the country. Photographs of me had been pub¬
lished as far away as Taiwan. I found a place where no one would ever
know me. The rapes, of course, you take with you.

I chose to go to the media — in an age without satellite transmission.
I am strong but there is no “strong enough.” Choice , were The New York
Times to grant it — an act of noblesse oblige, since they have the power
to do what they want — is not the magic bullet. A rape victim needs con¬
trol'. privacy, dignity, lack of fear. The media use you until they use you
up. You don’t get to tell them to stop now, please.

Had The New York Timess new woman-hating standard of going
after the victim — the only way to characterize using a rape victim’s
name — been in force, I would have kept quiet about what happened in
the jail.

Had The New York Timess new tabloid standard of journalism been
in operation, I would have been absolutely destroyed. I was no inno¬
cent. I was living with two men and had a third male lover at the time of
my arrest; I smoked marijuana; I had already, by eighteen, spent many
months on the streets, destitute. Despite my Bennington affiliation, I
was desperate and poor.

THE THIRD RAPE 59

I believed then, and I believe now, that still no one had a right to rip
up my insides — nor the insides of the many hundreds of mostly black
women, mostly prostitutes, in that jail. The City of New York, through
its policies, tormented and injured women, based on the conviction
that once a woman had had sexual experience, she was dirt. Woman as
dirt sells; pornography proves that. The New York Times has just
changed sides — from exposing abuse to exploiting it.

The Womens House of Detention was torn down in 1972. A com¬
munity-run garden flourishes in its place.

GARY HART AND
POST-PORNOGRAPHY POLITICS

I’m a member of the public that the press pretends to represent, and I
don’t have a right to know what Gary Hart did Friday night or Satur¬
day night, or if or how he masturbates, or how or with whom he makes
love, or whether his personal friendships with men or women are sexual
or not. His wife, Lee Hart, has a right to know. I do not. My rights meet
up with hers only when or if Mr. Hart brutalizes or exploits women, be¬
cause then he is not fit to govern. Using this novel standard. The Miami
Herald should have many stories to tell about politicians in power now.
Of course, that would be harder and more dangerous than doing bad
imitations of Miami Vice and knocking off at midnight. News flash: lots
of adults stay up, and dressed, past midnight. Actual conversations be¬
tween men and women take place then too. And on boats.

Watching the in-depth television coverage of this spectacular non-
event — two people, Mr. Hart and Donna Rice, walk through a door
into a house — one thing was clear: the reporters and managing editor of
The Miami Herald are young, members of the pornography generation,
that segment of our population that came into adulthood with pornog¬
raphy saturating public places, legitimized, the courts defending it as
speech and linking it in every breath they take to journalism, extending

60

GARY HART AND POST-PORNOGRAPHY POLITICS 61

to pornography the constitutional protections journalism has and
thereby giving pornography a similar social value, a high value.

These men chanted two mantras: the publics right to know and the
character question. They were exceptionally inarticulate except for this
peculiar version of Om.

The publics right to know is the propagandistic slogan the pornogra-
phers have been using to justify publishing violating pictures of naked
women, especially famous or near-famous women, who, in fact, do not
consent; who are, in fact, humiliated and hurt by the publishing of
them; and whose bodies become public property because the pornogra-
phers argue that a male public’s prurient interest has more constitu¬
tional value than a woman’s sexual privacy or integrity. The courts have
agreed. The press has sided with the pornographers. Now there is a gen¬
eration of male reporters nurtured on this cynical ethic of invasion: the
violating exposure of anything sexually arousing. Gary Hart in his
house with a woman not his wife — or, as one of the reporters kept say¬
ing on Nightline (May 5, 1987), “a single woman” — appears to be sexu¬
ally arousing to these arrogant voyeurs who have taken the most banal
circumstantial evidence and turned it into hard news. What’s hard isn’t
hard to find. To them, Mr. Hart and Ms. Rice are pornography.

The character question , so-called, is also rooted in the way pornogra¬
phers do business. Every sexual act that they sell in their magazines they
also use as a form of insult and attack: for instance, they sell pho¬
tographs of lesbian sex but attack those who oppose them as dirty les¬
bians. Any sex act, present or past, stigmatizes a person “exposed” by
them; they make anything you are and anything you do dirty. So it is
with these boys from The Miami Herald: Mr. Hart did something dirty,
no matter what he did. We are to infer that that’s the way he is.

The next step, of course, is to get photographs of Mr. Hart or other
politicians engaged in sex acts. Without those photographs, the docu¬
mentation, there is still only innuendo. Surely in this pornographers
paradise the publics right to know and the character question justify pho¬
tographing Mr. Hart, by any means necessary. The use of photography

62 LIFE AND DEATH

to violate the sexual privacy of women — the publication of the pho¬
tographs — has laid the groundwork socially and legally. Women used to
be blackmailed. Now women are published. Politicians used to be
blackmailed. Now they will be published. Blackmail is very cruel, but
the politicians will find what women found — that being published is
cruder.

This has been a circus of sadism, reprehensible in what it has done to
Mr. Hart, especially in invading a domain of privacy that every human
being must have, the privacy of chosen association, whether sexual or not;
but it has been murderous toward Ms. Rice and Lee Hart. Ms. Rice is
turned into meat; Lee Hart is humiliated beyond human endurance.
Since it was done in the name of my right to know, I beg their forgiveness.

A GOVERNMENT OF MEN,
NOT LAWS, NOT WOMEN

There’s no way to live with what John Mack did to Pamela Small in
1973. Mack — who resigned Thursday as House Speaker Jim
Wright s main aide and executive director of the congressional Democ¬
ratic Steering and Policy Committee — said his crime had been part of
the public record for sixteen years. Mack had been protected by Wright,
powerful Democrats in Congress, and a quiescent press willing to live
with his crime against Small — protecting him, fraternizing with him,
rewarding him. How could they?

John Paul Mack, then nineteen, managed a discount import store.
Pamela Small, then twenty, bought some Venetian blinds there. There
was something wrong with them, so Mack asked Small to come into the
storeroom to pick new blinds. Then, he blocked the door and told her
to lie down. She refused. He took a hammer and repeatedly smashed
her skull. Then, he stabbed her five times with a steak knife in her left
breast and shoulder and slashed her throat many times. Then, he put
her body in a car and drove around. Then, he parked the car and went
to a movie.

Small survived, escaped, pressed charges. Mack pleaded guilty to ma¬
licious wounding: specifically “that he did . . . stab, cut and wound one
Pamela Small with the intent to maim, disfigure, disable and kill.” He

63

64 LIFE AND DEATH

was sentenced to fifteen years, seven suspended, in the Virginia State
Penitentiary.

He never did hard time or much time. He served less than twenty-
seven months in a county jail where he worked as a cook. Then, he was
paroled — to a job on Wright’s congressional staff. Wright’s daughter was
then married to Mack’s brother. Presumably not a consumer of discount
Venetian blinds, she was not in any immediate danger; or if she was, the
speaker didn’t seem to care. The Washington Post said that since Wright
became speaker, Mack was “arguably the most powerful staff member
on Capitol Hill.”

Wright offered Mack a job before he was sentenced and wrote letters
in Mack’s behalf to the probation officer and sentencing judge. Only
Wright’s influence can account for the extreme leniency shown Mack
for a crime of heinous brutality. Only complete indifference to the
worth of a woman’s life — a stunning callousness — can account for
Wright’s manipulation of the legal system such that, in fact, the perpe¬
trator has been rewarded with political power for his carnage.

Mack said he “just blew my cool for a second.” Examined by a psy¬
chiatrist nearly a year later, Mack said he had “reacted in a way in which
any man would perhaps react under similar circumstances.” The “cir¬
cumstances” he was referring to were long work days and a failing mar¬
riage. Happily, he wasn’t saying he had had an appropriate response to a
woman choosing Venetian blinds. Unhappily, he was saying that blud¬
geoning the skull of a woman with a hammer, slashing her throat re¬
peatedly with a steak knife, stabbing her in the breast and shoulder re¬
peatedly, then going to a movie with the body left in the car, was
something “any man” would do if he were under pressure.

It’s an interesting and eloquent assertion of gender, implying as it
does that it is natural for a man to use massive, grotesque violence
against a woman, any woman, when he is upset. Court psychiatrists said
that Mack was sane when he committed the crime, that he knew right
from wrong. In fact, he knew Wright from wrong. The speaker sprung
him and he was protected by a network of male power. House Majority
Whip Tony Coelho (D-Calif.) told the Washington Post two weeks ago

A GOVERNMENT OF MEN, NOT LAWS, NOT WOMEN 65

that if Wright were to fire Mack, “members would be lined up to hire
him.” Because of the public outrage, that might no longer be the case.

Macks sane, Wright s sane, Coelho’s sane: what is a sane man? When
men know right from wrong, what is it that they know? And why are
these men running the country? How many sane men are there in gov¬
ernment? How many use hammers; how many use fists?

In the city where I live, a major politician has a history of beating
women. In each election for the past decade in which he has been a can¬
didate, womens groups have taken documentation to the press — affi¬
davits and testimony from women he has hurt. The press never thought
it was worth a line of newsprint. The press, too, is composed of sane
men. Between the male journalists who know right from wrong and the
male politicians who know right from wrong, women are in a vise: infor¬
mation and public policy controlled by Mack’s “any man” — men pro¬
tecting men who hurt women because “any man” will or might or can.

If Wrights time had not come, if he were not under indictment by
the House Ethics Committee, the public would not have been told
about Mack. The sane men in the press who know right from wrong
wouldn’t have thought it was important. Congressional insiders knew
Mack had committed a felony, some even knew about Mack’s crime;
they just didn’t tell the rest of us.

The issue for the press was Wright’s weakened political position. It
wasn’t that Mack committed an unspeakable crime of violence; or the
meaning of the speaker’s complicity in protecting him; or the meaning
of the congressional support for him — legislators protecting a slasher
when, not coincidentally, rape is epidemic, abortion rights threatened,
and pornography legally protected.

Male dominance means that men who are sane the way Mack was
sane run the country and control information; they are the government
and the press; they shape reality through laws and perception. They
protect “any man’s” violence against any woman. Not by accident is the
United States a nightmare of violence against women. Men in power
make choices for violence. They protect violence in men because any
man, under similar circumstances, would perhaps react the same way:

66 LIFE AND DEATH

the way Mack did; the way Wright did; the way Coelho and other pow¬
erful Democrats did. Its the boys-will-be-boys theory of good govern¬
ment, a government of men, not laws, not women.

Coehlo says he is “very close” to Mack. “Rightly or wrongly,” he said,
“under our system of law John Mack owed his debt to society, not to
this young woman.” The woman is chopped liver to him. The question
is: what is any woman going to do about it?

PORTRAIT OF A NEW PURITAN

AND A NEW SLAVER

As a woman determined to destroy the pornography industry, a
writer of ten published books, and someone who reads, perhaps I
should be the one to tell John Irving (“Pornography and the New Puri¬
tans,” The New York Times Book Review , March 29, 1992) who the new
Puritan is. The old Puritans wouldn’t like her very much; but then, nei¬
ther does Mr. Irving.

I am forty-five now. When I was a teen-ager I baby-sat. In any mid¬
dle-class home one could always find the dirty books — on the highest
shelf, climbing toward God, usually behind a parched, potted plant.
The books themselves were usually Ulysses , Tropic of Cancer, cr Lady
Chatterley’s Lover. They always had as preface or afterword the text of an
obscenity decision in which the book was vindicated and art extolled.
Or a lawyer would stand in for the court to tell us that through his
mighty efforts law had finally vindicated a persecuted genius.

Even at fifteen and sixteen, I noticed something strange about the
special intersection of art, law, and sex under the obscenity rubric: some
men punished some other men for producing or publishing writing that
caused erection in — presumably — still other men. Although Mrs.
Grundy got the blame, women didn’t make these laws or enforce them

67

68 LIFE AND DEATH

or sit on juries to deliberate guilt or innocence. This was a fight among
men — but about what?

Meanwhile, my life as a woman in prefeminist times went on. This
means that I thought I was a human being with rights. I even thought
I had responsibilities — for instance, to stop the Vietnam War. Before I
was much over eighteen, I had been sexually assaulted three times. Did
I report these assaults? — patriarchy’s first question, because surely the girl
must be lying. When I was nine I told my parents. To protect me, for
better or worse, they did not call the police. The second time, beaten as
well as raped, I told no one. I was working for a peace group and I heard
jokes about rape day in and day out. “What do you tell the draft board
when they ask you whether you would kill a Nazi who was going to rape
your sister?” “I’d tell my sister to have a good time” was the answer of
choice. The third time, the sexual assault was reported in The New York
Times , newspapers all around the world, and on television: girl in
prison — New York’s notorious Women’s House of Detention — brutal¬
ized by two prison doctors. Neither prison doctor was charged with sex¬
ual assault or sexual battery; none dared call it rape.

I had always wanted to be a writer in the Ulysses! Lawrence/Miller
mode but I learned without knowing it the first rule of speech for a
woman, who is, after all, not quite a human being when a man is
forcibly sticking something up her: keep your mouth shut, don’t write it
down, don’t sign it, don’t say it even if you can.

And at first I couldn’t. I came out of the Women’s House of Deten¬
tion mute. Speech depends on believing you can make yourself under¬
stood: that a community of people will recognize the experience in the
words you use and they will care. You also have to be able to understand
what happened to you enough to convey it to other people. I lost
speech. I was hurt past what I had words for. I lived out on the streets
for several days, not having a bed of my own, still bleeding; and finally
spoke because Grace Paley used kindness to make me tell her what had
happened to me. She convinced me that she would both understand
and care. Then I spoke a lot. A grand jury investigated. Columnists in¬
dicted the prison. But no one ever mentioned sexual assault. The grand

PORTRAIT OF A NEW PURITAN— AND A NEW SLAVER 69

jury concluded that the prison was just fine* I left the country — to be a
writer, my human dream.

Now, to make this short if not sweet. A year later I came back having
learned that the kindness of strangers is most meaningful when you get
it in cash up front. I spent a lot of years out on the street, living hand to
mouth, these New York streets and other streets in other hard cities. I
can hide my prostituting because I went to college and no one ever
looks for a woman’s real life anyway. I thought I was a real tough-ass and
I was: tough-calloused; tough-numb; tough-desperate; tough-scared;
tough-hungry; tough— beaten-by-men-often; tough— done-it-every-
which-way-including-up.

All of my colleagues who fight against pornography with me know
that I prostituted. I know about the lives of women in pornography be¬
cause I lived pornography. So have many feminists who fight pornogra¬
phy. Freedom looks very different when you are the one it is being done
on. Its his, not yours. Speech is different, too. Those sexy expletives are
the hate words he uses on you while he is using you; and your speech is
an inchoate protest never voiced.

In my work, fiction and nonfiction, I’ve tried to voice the protest
against a power that is dead weight on you, fist and penis organized to
keep you quiet. I would do virtually anything to get women out of pros¬
titution and pornography, which is technologized prostitution. With
pornography, a woman can still be sold after the beatings, the rapes, the
pain, the humiliation have killed her. I write for her, in behalf of her, to
try to intervene before she dies. I know her. I have come close to being
her. I read a lot of books. None of them ever told me the truth about
what happens to women until feminists started writing and publishing
in this wave, over these last twenty-two years. Over and over, male writ¬
ers call prostituted women “speech” — their speech, their right. Without
this exploitation published for profit, the male writer feels censored.
The woman lynched naked on a tree, or restrained with ropes and a ball
gag in her mouth, has what? Freedom of what?

I lost my ability to speak — became mute — a second time in my life.
I’ve written about being a battered wife: I was beaten and tortured over

70 LIFE AND DEATH

a period of a few years. Amnesty International never showed up. Toward
the end, when I would either die or escape, I lost all speech. Words were
useless to the likes of me. I had run away and asked for help and had
been sent back many times. My words didn’t seem to mean anything, or
it was okay to torture me. Taken once by my husband to a doctor when
hurt I risked asking for help. He said he could write me a prescription
for Valium or have me committed. The neighbors heard the screaming
but no one did anything. So what good are words? I have always been
good with them, but never good enough to be believed or helped. No,
there were no shelters then. But I am talking about speech: it isn’t easy
for me; I come from under him, tortured and tormented; what he does
to me takes away everything — he is the owner of everything — he hurts
all the words out of me and no one will listen anyway. I come to speech
from under the brutalities of thousands of men. For me, the violence of
marriage was worse than the violence of prostitution; but this is no par¬
adigm for choice. Men act out pornography. They have acted it out on
me. Women’s lives become pornography. Mine did. And so for twenty
years now I have been looking for the words to say what I know. But
maybe liberal men — so open-minded and intellectually curious — can’t
find the books to read. Maybe, while John Irving and PEN are defend¬
ing Hustler ; snufif films, and the coercion of Linda Marchiano into Deep
Throat , a political dissident like myself is pushed out of publishing (in
magazines for well over ten years now; books sold and published in
England because here they are anathema, especially to the free speech
fetishists): not because the publishing industry punishes prudes but be¬
cause dissenters who mean it, who stand against male power over
women, are pariahs. Either the words that I use in books to help people
understand how pornography destroys women’s chances in life are
worthless — and I am pushed back into being mute, this time a function
of despair caused by the refusal of liberals to see women’s real lives even
when we dare to show them — hard lives; or my work has been sup¬
pressed and stigmatized so successfully that John Irving and others do
not know that in the world of women pornography is real — not ideas,

PORTRAIT OF A NEW PURITAN— AND A NEW SLAVER 71

not fiction, it is done to us; it is the real geography of how men use us
and torment us and hate us.

With Catharine A, MacKinnon, I drafted the first civil law against
pornography. It holds pornographers accountable for what they do:
they traffic in women (contravening the United Nations Universal Dec¬
laration of Human Rights and the Convention on the Elimination of
All Forms of Discrimination Against Women); they sexualize inequality
in a way that materially promotes rape, battery, maiming, and bondage;
they make a product that they know dehumanizes, degrades, and ex¬
ploits women; they hurt women to make the pornography and then
consumers use the pornography in assaults both verbal and physical.

Mr. Irving refers to a scene in The World According to Garp in which
a woman bites off a mans penis in a car when the car is rammed acci¬
dentally from behind. (How pleasant that it is the car, not the woman.)
This, he says, did not cause women to bite off mens penises in cars.
Neither did my favorite womens movement button: “Don’t Suck. Bite.”
I have written — in Ice and Fire , in Mercy , and in the story “the new
womans broken heart” — about a woman raped by two men sequen¬
tially, the first aggressor routed by the second one to whom the woman,
near dead, submits — and he bites viciously and repeatedly into her cli¬
toris and the lips of her labia. When I wrote it, someone had already
done it — to me. Recently I read a report of a report on rape that for the
first time (to my knowledge) described this sadism as part of many
rapes. The rapists didn’t get it from me. But those working against rape
finally understood that they had to say that this is often part of rape be¬
cause it is. We know that serial killers frequently mutilate the genitals of
women, including with their teeth. The violence, as Mr. Irving must
know, goes from men to women. Women barely say what we know.
Then even that is ridiculed or suppressed. A letter to me dated March
1 1, 1992, says in part: “The abuse was quite sadistic — it involved bes¬
tiality, torture, the making of pornography. Sometimes, when I think
about my life, I’m not sure why I’m alive, but I’m always sure about why
I do what I do, the feminist theory and the antipornography activism.”

72 I IFE AND DEATH

A letter dated March 13, 1992, says: “It was only when I was almost
fucked to pieces, that I broke down and learned to hate. ... I have never
stopped resenting the loss of innocence that occurred the day I learned
to hate.” Male liberals seem to think we fight pornography to protect a
sexual innocence, but we have none to protect. The innocence we want
is the innocence that lets us love. People need dignity to love.

Mr. Irving quoted Hawthorne s condemnation of Puritan ortho¬
doxy — the graphic description in the short story “Endicott and the Red
Cross” of public punishments of women: bondage, branding, maiming,
lynching. Today pornographers do these things to women and the pub¬
lic square is a big place — every newsstand and video store. A photo¬
graph immunizes rape and torture for profit. In defending pornography
as if it were speech, liberals defend the new slavers. The only fiction in
pornography is the smile on the woman’s face.

FREE EXPRESSION IN SERBIAN
RAPE/DEATH CAMPS

In Bosnia, women and children are 75 percent of the more than 2.5
million people driven from their homes — not by the random vio¬
lence of war but by forced expulsion and mass killings — in the Serbian
military effort called “ ciscenje prostora or what Amerikans have learned
to call “ethnic cleansing.” Ethnic cleansing, enunciated as policy by Ser¬
bian political and military leaders at the highest levels of authority, is
genocide. It requires the removal or killing of all non-Serbs from the
new republics of Bosnia-Herzegovina and Croatia, both formerly part
of Yugoslavia.

The Serbian military has killed an estimated 200,000 people in
Bosnia alone, perhaps 80 percent Muslim, in massacres, mass murders,
and bombings aimed at civilians. Serbian military policy has mandated
the systematic gang rape of Muslim and Croatian women and girls,
their imprisonment in schools, factories, motels, arenas, and concentra¬
tion camps for ongoing serial rape, rape followed by murder, sexual tor¬
ture, and sexual slavery.

In addition to the estimated ninety concentration camps set up
throughout Bosnia, there are more than twenty rape/death camps. Some
hold fifteen to twenty-five women and look like brothels; others hold
more than 1,000. More than 7,000 women were held as prisoners in a

73

74 LIFF. AND DEATH

Serbian-run prison-brothel near Brcko in northern Bosnia, and Muslim
women are reportedly held in sexual slavery in the Sarajevo suburb of
Grbavica. Young girls just reaching puberty appear to be specially desig¬
nated targets for gang rape.

And then the Serbian soldiers started making pornography: well, why
not? Are we Amerikans going to understand that the war against
women — including the genocidal Serbian war of aggression against
women in Bosnia and Croatia — is rape, prostitution, and pornography?
Or do we think that Serbian-nationalist thugs are “expressing them¬
selves” in the pornographic landscape of sex and murder with which our
still-male government — not to mention the United Nations — is loath
to interfere? Are the films of rapes being made now in the Serbian-run
rape/death camps in occupied areas of Bosnia and Croatia — even of
rapes staged in order to be filmed — trivial compared with the rape itself,
which later will be blamed on the victims and called prostitution?

Most prostitution everywhere in the world begins with rape: a child
raped by her father; a teen-ager gang-raped by half the number of men
involved in a typical Serbian military gang rape (six instead of twelve at
a time); a female child sold into sexual slavery; any girl or woman driven
out of her home by male aggression, then pushed up against a wall or
down on a slab of earth and used.

The aggressor spits “whore” and moves on to the next victim while
the raped woman, her ties to a place and people destroyed, meets the
next aggressor. She will be an exile, a stigmatized, shunned refugee, pol¬
luted — in ordinary language, a whore. His invective becomes her life.

Before this war, the pornography market in Yugoslavia was, accord¬
ing to critic Bogdan Tirnanic, “the freest in the world.” Whatever the
communists suppressed, it wasn’t pornography — yet another example of
folks who can tell the difference between pornography and literature.

The pornography was war propaganda that trained an army of rapists
who waited for permission to advance. An atavistic nationalism pro¬
vided the trigger and defined the targets — those women, not these
women. The sexuality of the men was organized into antagonism, supe-

FREE EXPRESSION IN SERBIAN RAPE/DEATH CAMPS 75

riority, and hatred. The lessons had been learned — not an ideology but
a way of being: dehumanization of women; bigotry and aggression har¬
nessed to destroying the body of the enemy; invasion as a male right;
women as a lower life form.

In this war, pornography is everywhere: plastered on tanks; incorpo¬
rated into the gang rapes in the prostitution-prison brothels. Soldiers
have camcorders to do the military version of “Beaver Hunt” — women
tortured for the camera, raped for the camera, knifed and beaten for the
camera; and of course, for the man behind it, the rapist-soldier
turned — in Amerikan parlance — into an expresser. Of what? Oh, ideas.

In fact, acts of hatred often do express ideas; it is the Amerikan
pathology to euphemize aggression by calling it speech. This may be
why the U.S. press — with the exception of Ms. — has largely ignored the
pervasiveness of the pornography used by the Serbian rapists and now
being made by them. There is rape; that’s bad. There is pornography;
thats fun — adolescent, innocuous, endearing, as one writer in Harpers
represented it.

Serbian soldiers using pornography reminded that writer of “a
wretched teen-age camping trip”; the pornography they had he de¬
scribed as “ours.” He and the soldiers played poker with “nudie cards.”

Even during genocide, there is affectionate tolerance for a boys-will-
be-boys behavior so close to the Amerikan heart.

The world of women is different. Azra, fifteen, a Muslim, was raped
by eight men while conscious, “and I don’t know what happened after
that.” Her breasts were cut by a man who “seemed to be playing,” while
another was still on top of her. Enisa, sixteen, also gang-raped, said, “In
my world, men represent terrible violence and pain. That feeling is
stronger than me. I cannot control that feeling.”

And what will the land of the free and the home of the brave
do when the pornography of genocidal rape reaches our own home¬
grown men — no strangers to aggression against women by all statistical
representations?

The men will invoke their constitutional rights and consume it.

76 LIFE AND DEATH

The courts will protect it. Rape will travel with that pornography, as it
does with all pornography: the rape of the women used to make it, now
flattened and two-dimensional to be enjoyed in perpetuity, whether the
women are alive or dead; and the rape of new targets, three-dimensional
and present in the flesh — nominally citizens but not so that anyone has
to notice.

If the Constitution is ever to be women’s too, it cannot protect — de
jure or de facto — war on our bodies, the devastation of our dignity, the
slow murder of so many of us through rape, prostitution, and pornogra¬
phy, the true trinity of woman-hating atrocity.

It is perhaps too horrific to wonder, but: were the 200,000 “comfort”
women, raped by Japanese soldiers during World War II, lucky because
the Japanese didn’t have camcorders? They were turned into living
pornography through gang rape — the condition of all prostituted
women. And they were turned into necrophiliac pornography — no one
knows how many were murdered.

But the Japanese didn’t make movies, put a woman’s violation into a
permanence beyond her own will to remember or not. They didn’t pass
her on — on tape — to laughing groups of boys to be enjoyed again and
more, in peacetime, too. Piece-time.

This matters to women. The shame of rape — including in Asian and
Muslim societies — pales next to the shame of being made into filmed
pornography: the violation of you becoming a male legacy, a documen¬
tary record of being split open in the deepest humiliation; the pornog¬
raphy of you outliving you.

Can’t we care about this? Can’t we stand up for the rights of
women — in Bosnia, in Croatia, and here, too — by repudiating this
pornography of genocide? Or will the Serbian military be able to put
U.S. dollars in the bank: the spoils of war, profits made from our ap¬
petite for the filmed remains of raped women?

BEAVER TALKS

1

I did not hesitate to let it be known of me, that the white man
who expected to succeed in whipping, must also succeed in
killing me.

— Frederick Douglass,
Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass ,
An American Slave Written by Himself

In 1838, at the age of twenty-one, Frederick Douglass became a run¬
away slave, a hunted fugitive. Though later renowned as a powerful po¬
litical orator, he spoke his first public words with trepidation at -an abo¬
litionist meeting — a meeting of white people — in Massachusetts in
1841. Abolitionist leader William Lloyd Garrison recalled the event:

He came forward to the platform with a hesitancy and embarrassment,
necessarily the attendants of a sensitive mind in such a novel position.
After apologizing for his ignorance, and reminding the audience that
slavery was a poor school for the human intellect and heart, he pro¬
ceeded to narrate some of the facts in his own history as a slave. ... As
soon as he had taken his seat, filled with hope and admiration, I rose . . .
[and] . . . reminded the audience of the peril which surrounded this self-
emancipated young man at the North, — even in Massachusetts, on the

77

78 LIFE AND DEATH

soil of the Pilgrim Fathers, among the descendants of revolutionary sires;
and I appealed to them, whether they would ever allow him to be carried
back into slavery — law or no law, constitution or no constitution.1

Always in danger as a fugitive, Douglass became an organizer for the
abolitionists; the editor of his own newspaper, which advocated both
abolition and women’s rights; a station chief for the underground rail¬
road; a close comrade of John Brown’s; and the only person willing, at
the Seneca Falls Convention in 1848, to second Elizabeth Cady Stan¬
ton’s resolution demanding the vote for women. To me, he has been a
political hero: someone whose passion for human rights was both vi¬
sionary and rooted in action; whose risk was real, not rhetorical; whose
endurance in pursuing equality set a standard for political honor. In his
writings, which were as eloquent as his orations, his repudiation of sub¬
jugation was uncompromising. His political intelligence, which was
both analytical and strategic, was suffused with emotion: indignation at
human pain, grief at degradation, anguish over suffering, fury at apathy
and collusion. He hated oppression. He had an empathy for those hurt
by inequality that crossed lines of race, gender, and class because it was
an empathy animated by his own experience — his own experience of
humiliation and his own experience of dignity.

To put it simply, Frederick Douglass was a serious man — a man seri¬
ous in the pursuit of freedom. Well, you see the problem. Surely it is
self-evident. What can any such thing have to do with us — with women
in our time? Imagine — in present time — a woman saying, and mean¬
ing, that a man who expected to succeed in whipping, must also succeed
in killing her. Suppose there were a politics of liberation premised on
that assertion — an assertion not of ideology but of deep and stubborn
outrage at being misused, a resolute assertion, a serious assertion by se¬
rious women. What are serious women; are there any; isn’t seriousness
about freedom by women for women grotesquely comic; we don’t want
to be laughed at, do we? What would this politics of liberation be like?
Where would we find it? What would we have to do? Would we have to
do something other than dress for success? Would we have to stop the

BEAVER TALKS 79

people who are hurting us from hurting us? Not debate them; stop
them. Would we have to stop slavery? Not discuss it; stop it. Would we
have to stop pretending that our rights are protected in this society?
Would we have to be so grandiose, so arrogant, so unfeminine as to be¬
lieve that the streets we walk on, the homes we live in, the beds we sleep
in are ours — belong to us — really belong to us: we decide what is right
and what is wrong and if something hurts us, it stops. It is, of course,
gauche to be too sincere about these things, and it is downright ridicu¬
lous to be serious. Intelligent people are well mannered and moderate,
even in pursuing freedom. Smart women whisper and say please.

Now imagine Cherry Tart or Bunny or Pet or Beaver saying, and
meaning, that a man who expected to succeed in whipping must also
succeed in killing her. She says it; she means it. It is not a pornographic
scenario in which she is the dummy forced by the pimp-ventriloquist
to say the ubiquitous no-that-means-yes. It is not the usual sexual
provocation created by pornographers using a womans body, the sub¬
text of which is: I refuse to be whipped so whip me harder, whip me
more; I refuse to be whipped, what I really want is for you to kill me;
whip me, then kill me; kill me, then whip me; whatever you want,
however you want it — was it good for you? Instead, the piece on the
page or in the film steps down and steps out: Im real, she says. Like
Frederick Douglass, she will be hesitant and embarrassed. She .will feel
ignorant. She will tell a first-person story about her own experience in
prostitution, in pornography, as a victim of incest, as a victim of rape,
as someone who has been beaten or tortured, as someone who has
been bought and sold. She may not remind her audience that sexual
servitude is a poor school for the human intellect and heart — sexually
violated, often since childhood, she may not know the value of her
human intellect or her human heart — and the audience cannot be
counted on to know that she deserved better than she got. Will there
be someone there to implore the audience to help her escape the
pornography — law or no law, Constitution or no Constitution; will
the audience understand that as long as the pornography of her exists
she is a captive of it, a fugitive from it? Will the audience be willing to

80 LIFE AND DEATH

fight for her freedom by fighting against the pornography of her, be¬
cause, as Linda Marchiano said of Deep Throaty “every time someone
watches that film, they are watching me being raped”2? Will the audi¬
ence understand that she is standing in for those who didn’t get away;
will the audience understand that those who didn’t get away were
someone — each one was someone? Will the audience understand what
stepping down from the page or out of the film cost her — what it took
for her to survive, for her to escape, for her to dare to speak now about
what happened to her then?

“I’m an incest survivor, ex-pornography model, and ex-prostitute,”
the woman says. “My incest story begins before preschool and ends
many years later — this was with my father. I was also molested by an
uncle and a minister . . . my father forced me to perform sexual acts
with men at a stag party when I was a teen-ager. . . . My father was my
pimp in pornography. There were three occasions from ages nine to six¬
teen when he forced me to be a pornography model ... in Nebraska, so,
yes, it does happen here.”3

I was thirteen when I was forced into prostitution and pornography,
the woman says. I was drugged, raped, gang-raped, imprisoned, beaten,
sold from one pimp to another, photographed by pimps, photographed
by tricks; I was used in pornography and they used pornography on me;
“(t]hey knew a child’s face when they looked into it. It was clear that I
was not acting of my own free will. I was always covered with welts and
bruises. ... It was even clearer that I was sexually inexperienced. I liter¬
ally didn’t know what to do. So they showed me pornography to teach
me about sex and then they would ignore my tears as they positioned
my body like the women in the pictures and used me.”4

“As I speak about pornography, here, today,” the woman says, “I am
talking about my life.” I was raped by my uncle when I was ten, by my
stepbrother and stepfather by the time I was twelve. My stepbrother was
making pornography of me by the time I was fourteen. “I was not even
sixteen years old and my life reality consisted of sucking cocks, posing
nude, performing sexual acts and actively being repeatedly raped.”5

These are the women in the pictures; they have stepped out, though

BEAVER TALKS 81

the pictures may still exist. They have become very serious women; seri¬
ous in the pursuit of freedom. There are many thousands of them in the
United States, not all first put in pornography as children though most
were sexually molested as children, raped or otherwise abused again
later, eventually becoming homeless and poor. They are feminists in the
antipornography movement, and they don’t want to debate Tree
speech.” Like Frederick Douglass, they are fugitives from the men who
made a profit off of them. They live in jeopardy, always more or less in
hiding. They organize to help others escape. They write — in blood,
their own. They publish sometimes, including their own newsletters.
They demonstrate; they resist; they disappear when the danger gets too
close. The Constitution has nothing for them — no help, no protection,
no dignity, no solace, no justice. The law has nothing for them — no
recognition of the injuries done them by pornography, no reparations
for what has been taken from them. They are real, and even though this
society will do nothing for them, they are women who have resolved
that the man who expects to succeed in whipping must also succeed in
killing them. This changes the nature of the women’s movement. It
must stop slavery. The runaway slave is now part of it.

2

One new indulgence was to go out evenings alone. This I
worked out carefully in my mind, as not only a right but a duty.
Why should a woman be deprived of her only free time, the
time allotted to recreation? Why must she be dependent on
some man, and thus forced to please him if she wished to go
anywhere at night?

A stalwart man once sharply contested my claim to this free¬
dom to go alone. “Any true man,” he said with fervor, “is always
ready to go with a woman at night. He is her natural protector.”
“Against what?” I inquired. As a matter of fact, the thing a
woman is most afraid to meet on a dark street is her natural pro¬
tector. Singular.

— Charlotte Perkins Gilman,
The Living of Charlotte Perkins Gilman: An Autobiography

82 LIFE AND DEATH

She was thirteen. She was at a Girl Scout camp in northern Wisconsin.
She went for a long walk in the woods alone during the day. She had
long blond hair. She saw three hunters reading magazines, talking, jok¬
ing. One looked up and said: “Theres a live one.” She thought they
meant a deer. She ducked and started to run away. They meant her.
They chased her, caught her, dragged her back to where they were
camped. The magazines were pornography of women she physically re¬
sembled: blond, childlike. They called her names from the pornogra¬
phy: Little Godiva, Golden Girl, also bitch and slut. They threatened to
kill her. They made her undress. It was November and cold. One held a
rifle to her head; another beat her breasts with his rifle. All three raped
her — penile penetration into the vagina. The third one couldn't get
hard at first so he demanded a blow job. She didn’t know what that was.
The third man forced his penis into her mouth; one of the others
cocked the trigger on his rifle. She was told she had better do it right.
She tried. When they were done with her they kicked her: they kicked
her naked body and they kicked leaves and pine needles on her. “[T]hey
told me that if I wanted more, that I could come back the next day.”6

She was sexually abused when she was three by a boy who was four¬
teen — it was a “game” he had learned from pornography. “[I]t seems re¬
ally bizarre to me to use the word ‘boy' because the only memory I have
of this person is as a three year old. And as a three year old he seemed
like a really big man.” When she was a young adult she was drugged by
men who made and sold pornography. She remembers flashing lights,
being forced onto a stage, being undressed by two men and sexually
touched by a third. Men were waving money at her: “one of them
shoved it in my stomach and essentially punched me. I kept wondering
how it was possible that they couldn’t see that I didn't want to be there,
that I wasn’t there willingly.”7

She had a boyfriend. She was twenty-one. One night he went to a stag
party and watched pornography films. He called her up to ask if he could
have sex with her. She felt obligated to make him happy. “I also felt that
the refusal would be indicative of sexual quote unquote hang-ups on my
part and that I was not quote unquote liberal enough. When he arrived,

BEAVER TALKS 83

he informed me that the other men at the party were envious that he had
a girlfriend to fuck. They wanted to fuck too after watching the pornog¬
raphy. He informed me of this as he was taking his coat off.” He had her
perform oral sex on him: “I did not do this of my own volition. He put
his genitals in my face and he said ‘Take it all.’ ” He fucked her. The
whole encounter took about five minutes. Then he dressed and went
back to the party. “I felt ashamed and numb and I also felt very used.”8

She was seventeen, he was nineteen. He was an art student. He used
her body for photography assignments by putting her body in con¬
torted positions and telling her rape stories to get the expression he
wanted on her face: fear. About a year later he had an assignment to do
body casts in plaster. He couldn’t get models because the plaster was
heavy and caused fainting. She was a premed student. She tried to ex¬
plain to him how deleterious the effects of the plaster were. “When you
put plaster on your body, it sets up, it draws the blood to the skin and
the more area it covers on your body, the more blood is drawn to your
skin. You become dizzy and nauseous and sick to your stomach and fi¬
nally faint.” He needed his work to be exhibited, so he needed her to
model. She tried. She couldn’t stand the heat and the weight of the plas¬
ter. “He wanted me to be in poses where I had to hold my hands up
over my head, and they would be numb and they would fall. He even¬
tually tied my hands over my head.” They got married. During the
course of their marriage he began to consume more and more pornogra¬
phy. He would read excerpts to her from the magazines about group sex,
wife swapping, anal intercourse, and bondage. They would go to
pornography films and wet T-shirt contests with friends. “I felt devas¬
tated and disgusted watching it. I was told by those men that if I wasn’t
as smart as I was and if I would be more sexually liberated and more
sexy that I would get along a lot better in the world and that they and a
lot of other men would like me more. About this time I started feeling
very terrified. I realized that this wasn’t a joke anymore.” She asked her
mother for help but was told that divorce was a disgrace and it was her
responsibility to make the marriage work. He brought his friends home
to act out the scenarios from the pornography. She found the group sex

84 LIFE AND DEATH

humiliating and disgusting, and to prevent it she agreed to act out the
pornography in private with her husband. She began feeling suicidal.
He was transferred to an Asian country in connection with his job. The
pornography in the country where they now lived was more violent. He
took her to live sex shows where women had sex with animals, especially
snakes. Increasingly, when she was asleep he would force intercourse on
her. Then he started traveling a lot, and she used his absence to learn
karate. “One night when I was in one of those pornographic institu¬
tions, I was sitting with a couple of people that I had known, watching
the women on stage and watching the different transactions and the
sales of the women and the different acts going on, and I realized that
my life wasn’t any different than these women except that it was done in
the name of marriage. I could see how I was being seasoned to the use of
pornography and I could see what was coming next. I could see more
violence and I could see more humiliation and I knew at that point I
was either going to die from it, I was going to kill myself, or I was going
to leave. And I was feeling strong enough that I left. . . . Pornography is
not a fantasy, it was my life, reality.”9

At the time she made this statement, she couldn’t have been older
than twenty-two. She was terrified that the people would be identifi¬
able, and so she spoke in only the most general terms, never specifying
their relationship to her. She said she had lived in a house with a di¬
vorced woman, that woman’s children, and the ex-husband, who re¬
fused to leave. She had lived there for eighteen years. During that time,
“the woman was regularly raped by this man. He would bring porno¬
graphic magazines, books, and paraphernalia into the bedroom with
him and tell her that if she did not perform the sexual acts that were
being done in the ‘dirty’ books and magazines he would beat and kill
her. I know about this because my bedroom was right next to hers. I
could hear everything they said. I could hear her screams and cries. In
addition, since I did most of the cleaning in the house, I would often
come across the books, magazines, and paraphernalia that were in the
bedroom and other rooms of the house. . . . Not only did I suffer
through the torture of listening to the rapes and tortures of a woman,

BEAVER TALKS 85

but I could see what grotesque acts this man was performing on her
from the pictures in the pornographic materials. I was also able to see
the systematic destruction of a human being taking place before my
eyes. At the time I lived with the woman, I was completely helpless,
powerless in regard to helping this woman and her children in getting
away from this man. ” As a child, she was told by the man that if she ever
told or tried to run away he would break her arms and legs and cut up
her face. He whipped her with belts and electrical cords. He made her
pull her pants down to beat her. “I was touched and grabbed where I
did not want him to touch me.” She was also locked in dark closets and
in the basement for long periods of time.10

She was raped by two men. They were acting out the pornographic
video game “Custers Revenge.” She was American Indian; they were
white. “They held me down and as one was running the tip of his knife
across my face and throat he said, ‘Do you want to play Custers Last
Stand? Its great. You lose but you don’t care, do you? You like a little
pain, don’t you, squaw.’ They both laughed and then he said, ‘There is a
lot of cock in Custer’s Last Stand. You should be grateful, squaw, that
all-Amerikan boys like us want you. Maybe we will tie you to a tree and
start a fire around you.’ ”n

Her name is Jayne Stamen. She is currendy in jail. In 1986, she hired
three men to beat up her husband. She wanted him to know what a
beating felt like. He died. She was charged with second-degree murder;
convicted of first-degree manslaughter; sentenced to eight-and-a-half to
twenty-five years. She was also convicted of criminal solicitation: in
1984 she asked some men to kill her husband for her, then reneged; she
was sentenced on the criminal solicitation charge to two-and-a-third to
seven years. The sentences are to run consecutively. She was tortured in
her marriage by a man consumed by acting out pornography. He tied
her up when he raped her; he broke bones; he forced anal intercourse;
he beat her mercilessly; he penetrated her vagina with objects, “his rifle,
or a long-necked wine decanter, or twelve-inch artificial rubber
penises.” He shaved the hair off her pubic area because he wanted, in his
words, to “screw a baby’s cunt.” He slept with a rifle and kept a knife by

36 LIFE AND DEATH

the bed; he would threaten to cut her face with the knife if she didn’t act
Dut the pornography, and he would use the knife again if she wasn’t
showing pleasure. He called her all the names: whore, slut, cunt, bitch.
‘He used to jerk himself off on my chest while I was sleeping, or I
would get woke up with him coming in my face and then hed urinate
on me.” She tried to escape several times. He came after her armed with
his rifle. She became addicted to alcohol and pills. “The papers stated
that I didn’t report [the violence] to the police. I did have the police at
my home on several occasions. Twice on Long Island was for the gun
threats, and once in Starrett City was also for the gun. The rest of the
times were for the beatings and throwing me out of the house. A few
times the police helped me get away from him with my clothes and the
boys. I went home to my mom’s. [He came after her with a rifle.] I went
to the doctor’s and hospitals on several occasions, too, but I could not
tell the truth on how I ‘hurt myself.’ I always covered up for him, as I
knew my life depended on that.” The judge wouldn’t admit testimony
on the torture because he said the husband wasn’t on trial. The defense
lawyer said in private that he thought she probably enjoyed the abusive
sex. Jayne’s case will be appealed, but she may well have to stay in jail at
Bedford Hills, a New York State prison for women, for the duration of
the appeal because Women Against Pornography, a group that estab¬
lished the Defense Fund for Jayne Stamen, has not been able to raise
bail money for her. Neither have I or others who care. It isn’t chic to
help such women; they aren’t the Black Panthers. Ironically, there are
many women — and recently a teen-age girl, a victim of incest — who
have hired others to kill the men — husbands, fathers — who were tortur¬
ing them because they could not bear to do it themselves. Or the
woman pours gasoline on the bed when he sleeps and lights the fire.
Jayne didn’t hire the men to kill her husband; the real question may be,
why not? why didn’t she? Women don’t understand self-defense the way
men do — perhaps because sexual abuse destroys the self. We don’t feel
we have a right to kill just because we are being beaten, raped, tortured,
and terrorized. We are hurt for a long time before we fight back. Then,
usually, we are punished: “I have lived in a prison for ten years, meaning

BEAVER TALKS 87

my marriage/’ says Jayne Stamen, “. . . and now they have me in a real
prison.”12

I’ve quoted from statements, all made in public forums, by women I
know well (except for Jayne Stamen; l’ve talked with her but I haven’t
met her). I can vouch for them; I know the stories are true. The women
who made these particular statements are only a few of the thousands of
women I have met, talked with, questioned: women who have been
hurt by pornography. The women are real to me. I know what they look
like standing tall; I’ve seen the fear; I’ve watched them remember; I’ve
talked with them about other things, all sorts of things: intellectual is¬
sues, the weather, politics, school, children, cooking. I have some idea
of their aspirations as individuals, the ones they lost during the course
of sexual abuse, the ones they cherish now. I know them. Each one, for
me, has a face, a voice, a whole life behind her face and her voice. Each
is more eloquent and more hurt than I know how to convey. Since
1974, when my book Woman Hating was first published, women have
been seeking me out to tell me that they have been hurt by pornogra¬
phy; they have told me how they have been hurt in detail, how much,
how long, by how many. They thought I might believe them, initially, I
think, because I took pornography seriously in Woman Hating. I said it
was cruel, violent, basic to the way our culture sees and treats women —
and I said the hate in it was real. Well, they knew that the hate in it was
real because they had been sexually assaulted by that hate. One does not
make the first tentative efforts to communicate about this abuse to
those who will almost certainly ridicule one. Some women took a
chance on me; and it was a chance, because I often did not want to lis¬
ten. I had my limits and my reasons, like everyone else. For many years,
I heard the same stories I have tried to encapsulate here: the same sto¬
ries, sometimes more complicated, sometimes more savage, from thou¬
sands of women, most of whom hadn’t dared to tell anyone. No part of
the country was exempt; no age group; no racial or ethnic group; no
“life-style” however “normal” or “alternative.” The statements I have
paraphrased here are not special: not more sadistic, not chosen by me
because they are particularly sickening or offensive. In fact, they are not

88 LIFE AND DEATH

particularly sickening or offensive. They simply are what happens to
women who are brutalized by the use of pornography on them.

Such first-person stories from women are dismissed by defenders of
pornography as “anecdotal”; they misuse the word to make it denote a
story, probably fictive, that is small, trivial, inconsequential, proof only
of some defect in the woman herself — the story tells us nothing about
pornography but it tells us all we need to know about the woman. She’s
probably lying; maybe she really liked it; and if it did happen, how
could anyone (sometimes referred to as “a smart girl like you”) be stupid
enough, simple-minded enough, to think that pornography had any¬
thing to do with it? Wasn’t there, as one grinning adversary always asks,
also coffee in the house? The coffee, he suggests, is more likely to be a
factor in the abuse than the pornography — after all, the bad effects of
coffee have been proven in the laboratory. What does one do when
women’s lives are worth so little — worth arrogant, self-satisfied ridicule
and nothing else, not even the appearance, however false, of charity or
concern? Alas, one answers: the man (the husband, the boyfriend, the
rapist, the torturer — you or your colleague or your best friend or your
buddy) wasn’t reading the coffee label when he tied the knots; the direc¬
tions he followed are found in pornography, and, frankly, they are not
found anywhere else. The first-person stories are human experience, raw
and true, not mediated by dogma or ideology or social convention;
“human” is the trick word in the sentence. If one values women as
human beings, one cannot turn away or refuse to hear so that one can
refuse to care without bearing responsibility for the refusal. One cannot
turn one’s back on the women or on the burden of memory they carry.
If one values women as human beings, one will not turn one’s back on
the women who are being hurt today and the women who will be hurt
tomorrow.

Most of what we know about the experience of punishment, the expe¬
rience of torture, the experience of socially sanctioned sadism, comes
from the first-person testimony of individuals — “anecdotal” material.
We have the first-person stories of Frederick Douglass and Sojourner
Truth, of Primo Levi and Elie Wiesel, of Nadezhda Mandelstam and

BEAVER TALKS 89

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. Others in the same or different circumstances of
torture and terror have spoken out to bear witness. Often, they were not
believed. They were shamed, not honored. We smelled the humiliation,
the degradation, on them; we turned away. At the same time, their sto¬
ries were too horrible, too impossible, too unpleasant; their stories in-
dieted those who stood by and did nothing— most of us, most of the
time. Respectfully, I suggest that the women who have experienced the
sadism of pornography on their bodies — the women in the pornography
and the women on whom the pornography is used — are also survivors;
they bear witness, now, for themselves, on behalf of others. “Survivors,”
wrote Terrence Des Pres, “are not individuals in the bourgeois sense.
They are living remnants of the general struggle, and certainly they know
it.”13 Of these women hurt by pornography, we must say that they know
it now. Before, each was alone, unspeakably alone, isolated in terror and
humiliated even by the will to live — it was the will to live, after all, that
carried each woman from rape to rape, from beating to beating. Each
had never heard another’s voice saying the words of what had happened,
telling the same story; because it is the same story, over and over — and
none of those who escaped, survived, endured, are individuals in the
bourgeois sense. These women will not abandon the meaning of their
own experience. That meaning is: pornography is the orchestrated de¬
struction of womens bodies and souls; rape, battery, incest, and prostitu¬
tion animate it; dehumanization and sadism characterize it; it is war on
women, serial assaults on dignity, identity, and human worth; it is
tyranny. Each woman who has survived knows from the experience of
her own life that pornography is captivity — the woman trapped in the
picture used on the woman trapped wherever he’s got her.

The burden of proof will be on those of us who have been vic¬
timized. If I [any woman] am able to prove that the picture
you are holding, the one where the knife is stuffed up my
vagina, was taken when my pimp forced me at gunpoint and

90 LIFE AND D HATH

photographed it without my consent, if my existence is proved
real, I am coming to take what is mine. If I can prove that the
movie you are looking at called Black Bondage, the one where
my black skin is synonymous with filth and my bondage and
my slavery is encouraged, caused me harm and discrimination,
if my existence is proved real, I am coming to take what is
mine. Whether you like it or not, the time is coming when you
will have to get your fantasy off my ass .

— Therese Stanton,
“Fighting for Our Existence”
in Changing Men, No. 15, fall 1985

In the fall of 1983, something changed. The speech of women hurt by
pornography became public and real. It, they, began to exist in the
sphere of public reality. Constitutional lawyer Catharine A. MacKinnon
and I were hired by the City of Minneapolis to draft an amendment to
the city’s civil rights law: an amendment that would recognize pornog¬
raphy as a violation of the civil rights of women, as a form of sex dis¬
crimination, an abuse of human rights. We were also asked to organize
hearings that would provide a legislative record showing the need for
such a law. Essentially, the legislators needed to know that these viola¬
tions were systematic and pervasive in the population they represented,
not rare, peculiar anomalies.

The years of listening to the private stories had been years of despair
for me. It was hopeless. I could not help. There was no help. I listened;
I went on my way; nothing changed. Now, all the years of listening were
knowledge, real knowledge that could be mined: a resource, not a bur¬
den and a curse. I knew how women were hurt by pornography. My
knowledge was concrete, not abstract: I knew the ways it was used; I
knew how it was made; I knew the scenes of exploitation and abuse in
real life — the lives of prostitutes, daughters, girlfriends, wives; I knew
the words the women said when they dared to whisper what had hap¬
pened to them; I could hear their voices in my mind, in my heart. I
didn’t know that there were such women all around me, everywhere, in
Minneapolis that fall. I was heartbroken as women I knew came for-

BEAVER TALKS 91

ward to testify: though I listened with an outer detachment to the sto¬
ries of rape, incest, prostitution, battery, and torture, each in the service
of pornography, inside I wanted to die.

The women who came forward to testify at the hearings held by the
Minneapolis City Council on December 12 and 13, 1983, gave their
names and specified the area of the city in which they lived. They spoke
on the record before a governmental body in the city where they lived;
there they were, for family, neighbors, friends, employers, teachers, and
strangers to see, to remember. They described in detail sexual abuse
through pornography as it had happened to them. They were ques¬
tioned on their testimony by Catharine MacKinnon and myself and
also by members of the city council and sometimes the city attorney.
There were photographers and television cameras. There were a couple
of hundred people in the room. There was no safety, no privacy, no re¬
treat, no protection; only a net of validation provided by the testimony
of experts — clinical psychologists, prosecutors, experimental psycholo¬
gists, social scientists, experts in sexual abuse from rape crisis centers
and battered women’s shelters, and those who worked with sex offend¬
ers. The testimony of these experts was not abstract or theoretical; it
brought the lives of more women, more children, into the room: more
rape, more violation through pornography. They too were talking about
real people who had been hurt, sometimes killed; they had seen, known,
treated, interviewed, numbers of them. A new social truth emerged, one
that had been buried in fear, shame, and the silence of the socially pow¬
erless: no woman hurt by pornography was alone — she never had been;
no woman hurt by pornography would ever be alone again because each
was — truly — a “living remnant of the general struggle.” What the sur¬
vivors said was speech; the pornography had been, throughout their
lives, a means of actively suppressing their speech. They had been
turned into pornography in life and made mute; terrorized by it and
made mute. Now the mute spoke; the socially invisible were seen; the
women were real; they mattered. This speech — their speech — was new
in the world of public discourse, and it was made possible by the devel¬
opment of a law that some called censorship. The women came forward

92 LIFE AND DEATH

because they thought that the new civil rights law recognized what had
happened to them, gave them recourse and redress, enhanced their civil
dignity and human worth. The law itself gave them existence. I am real;
they believed me; I count; social policy at last will take my life into ac¬
count, validate my worth — me, the woman who was forced to fuck a
dog; me, the woman he urinated on; me, the woman he tied up for his
friends to use; me, the woman he masturbated in; me, the woman he
branded or maimed; me, the woman he prostituted; me, the woman
they gang-raped.

The law was passed twice in Minneapolis in 1983 and 1984 by two
different city councils; it was vetoed each time by the same mayor, a
man active in Amnesty International, opposing torture outside of Min¬
neapolis. The law was passed in 1984 in Indianapolis with a redrafted
definition that targeted violent pornography — the kind “everyone” op¬
poses. The city was sued for passing it; the courts found it unconstitu¬
tional. The appeals judge said that pornography did all the harm we
claimed — it promoted insult and injury, rape and assault, even caused
women to have lower wages — and that these effects proved its power as
speech; therefore, it had to be protected. In 1985, the law was put on
the ballot by popular petition in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The city
council refused to allow it on the ballot; we had to sue for ballot access;
the civil liberties people opposed our having that access; we won the
court case and the city was ordered to put the law on the ballot. We got
42 percent of the vote, a higher percentage than feminists got on the
first womens suffrage referendum. In 1988, the law was on the ballot in
Bellingham, Washington, in the presidential election; we got 62 percent
of the vote. The city had tried to keep us off the ballot; again we had to
get a court order to gain ballot access. The City of Bellingham was sued
by the ACLU in federal court for having the law, however unwillingly; a
federal district judge found the law unconstitutional, simply reiterating
the previous appeals court decision in the Indianapolis case — indeed,
there was a statement that the harms of pornography were recognized
and not in dispute.

We have not been able to get the courts to confront a real woman

BEAVER TALKS 93

plaintiff suing a real pornographer for depriving her of real rights
through sexual exploitation or sexual abuse. This is because the chal¬
lenges to the civil rights law have been abstract arguments about speech,
as if womens lives are abstract, as if the harms are abstract, conceded but
not real. The women trapped in the pictures continue to be perceived as
the free speech of the pimps who exploit them. No judge seems willing
to look such a woman, three-dimensional and breathing, in the face and
tell her that the pimp s use of her is his constitutionally protected right
of speech; that he has a right to express himself by violating her. The
women on whom the pornography is used in assault remain invisible
and speechless in these court cases. No judge has had to try to sleep at
night having heard a real womans voice describing what happened to
her, the incest, the rape, the gang rape, the battery, the forced prostitu¬
tion. Keeping these women silent in courts of law is the main strategy of
the free speech lawyers who defend the pornography industry. Hey, they
love literature; they deplore sexism. If some women get hurt, that’s the
price we pay for freedom. Who are the “we”? What is the “freedom”?
These speech-loving lawyers keep the women from speaking in court so
that no judge will actually be able to listen to them.

Women continue speaking out in public forums, even though we are
formally and purposefully silenced in actual courts of law. Hearings were
held by a subcommittee of the Senate Judiciary Committee on the effects
of pornography on women and children; the Attorney General’s Com¬
mission on Pornography listened to the testimony of women hurt by
pornography; women are demanding to speak at conferences, debates, on
television, radio. This civil rights law is taught in law schools all over the
country; it is written about in law journals, often favorably; increasingly, it
has academic support; and its passage has been cited as precedent in at
least one judicial decision finding that pornography in the workplace can
be legally recognized as sexual harassment. The time of silence — at least
the time of absolute silence — is over. And the civil rights law developed in
Minneapolis has had an impact around the world. It is on the agenda of
legislators in England, Ireland, West Germany, New Zealand, Tasmania,
and Canada; it is on the agenda of political activists all over the world.

94 LIFE AND DEATH

The law itself is civil, not criminal. It allows people who have been
hurt by pornography to sue for sex discrimination. Under this law, it is
sex discrimination to coerce, intimidate, or fraudulently induce anyone
into pornography; it is sex discrimination to force pornography on a
person in any place of employment, education, home, or any public
place; it is sex discrimination to assault, physically attack, or injure any
person in a way that is directly caused by a specific piece of pornogra¬
phy — the pornographers share responsibility for the assault; in the
Bellingham version, it is also sex discrimination to defame any person
through the unauthorized use in pornography of their name, image,
and/or recognizable personal likeness; and it is sex discrimination to
produce, sell, exhibit, or distribute pornography — to traffic in the ex¬
ploitation of women, to traffic in material that provably causes aggres¬
sion against and lower civil status for women in society.

The laws definition of pornography is concrete, not abstract.
Pornography is defined as the graphic, sexually explicit subordination of
women in pictures and/or words that also includes women presented
dehumanized as sexual objects, things, or commodities; or women pre¬
sented as sexual objects who enjoy pain or humiliation; or women pre¬
sented as sexual objects who experience sexual pleasure in being raped;
or women presented as sexual objects tied up or cut up or mutilated or
bruised or physically hurt; or women presented in postures or positions
of sexual submission, servility, or display; or womens body parts — in¬
cluding but not limited to vaginas, breasts, buttocks — exhibited such
that women are reduced to those parts; or women presented as whores
by nature; or women presented being penetrated by objects or animals;
or women presented in scenarios of degradation, injury, torture, shown
as filthy or inferior, bleeding, bruised, or hurt in a context that makes
these conditions sexual. If men, children, or transsexuals are used in any
of the same ways, the material also meets the definition of pornography.

For women hurt by pornography, this law simply describes reality; it
is a map of a real world. Because the law allows them to sue those who
have imposed this reality on them — especially the makers, sellers, ex¬
hibitors, and distributors of pornography — they have a way of redraw-

BEAVER TALKS 95

ing the map. The courts now protect the pornography; they recognize
the harm to women in judicial decisions — or they use words that say
they recognize the harm — and then tell women that the Constitution
protects the harm; profit is real to them and they make sure the pimps
stay rich, even as women and their children are this country’s poor. The
civil rights law is designed to confront both the courts and the pornog-
raphers with a demand for substantive, not theoretical, equality. This
law says: we have the right to stop them from doing this to us because
we are human beings. “If my existence is proved real, I am coming to
take what is mine,” Therese Stanton wrote for every woman who wants
to use this law. How terrifying that thought must be to those who have
been using women with impunity.

Initially an amendment to a city ordinance, this law has had a global
impact because: (1) it tells the truth about what pornography is and
does; (2) it tells the truth about how women are exploited and hurt by
the use of pornography; (3) it seeks to expand the speech of women by
taking the pornographers’ gags out of our mouths; (4) it seeks to expand
the speech and enhance the civil status of women by giving us the courts
as a forum in which we will have standing and authority; (5) it is a
mechanism for redistributing power, taking it from pimps, giving it to
those they have been exploiting for profit, injuring for pleasure; (6) it
says that women matter, including the women in the pornography. This
law and the political vision and experience that inform it are not going
to go away. We are going to stop the pornographers. We are going to
claim our human dignity under law. One ex-prostitute, who is an orga¬
nizer for the passage of this civil rights law, wrote: “Confronting how
I’ve been hurt is the hardest thing that I’ve ever had to do in my life. A
hard life, if I may say so.”14 She is right. Confronting the pornographers
is easier — their threats, their violence, their power. Confronting the
courts is easier — their indifference, their contempt for women, their
plain stupidity. Confronting the status quo is easier. Patience is easier
and so is every form of political activism, however dangerous. Beaver is
real, all right. A serious woman — formidable even — she is coming to
take what is hers.

96 LIFE AND DEATH

4

That same night [July 20, 1944, the attempt by the generals to
assassinate Hitler] he [Goebbels] turned his house into Ma
prison, headquarters and court rolled into one”; Goebbels him¬
self headed a commission of investigation; and he and Himmler
cross-examined the arrested generals throughout the night.
Those condemned, then or thereafter, were executed with re¬
volting cruelty. They were hanged from meat-hooks and slowly
strangled. Goebbels ordered a film to be made of their trial and
execution: it was to be shown, in terrorem to Wehrmacht audi¬
ences. However, the reaction of the first audience was so hostile
that it had to be suppressed.

— Hugh Trevor-Roper,

in his introduction to Final Entries 1945: The Diaries of Joseph Goebbels

As far as I can determine, Goebbels’s film of the generals slowly, horribly
dying — their innards caving in from the force of gravity on their hung
bodies, the slow strangulation pushing out their tongues and eyes and
causing erection (which strangulation invariably does in the male) — was
the first snuff film. The master of hate propaganda didn’t get it right
though — a rare lapse. Audiences became physically sick. These were
Nazi audiences watching Nazi generals, men of power, the society’s pa¬
triarchs, so white they were Aryan; rulers, not slaves. It only works when
the torture is done on those who have been dehumanized, made infe¬
rior — not just in the eyes of the beholder but in his real world. Goebbels
started out with cartoons of Jews before the Nazis came to power; he
could have moved on to the films made in Dachau in 1942, for in¬
stance, of “the reactions of the men placed in the Luftwaffe’s low-pres¬
sure chambers”15; desensitizing his Nazi audiences to the humiliation,
the torture, of Jews, he could have made a film that would have
worked — of Jews hanging from meat hooks, slowly strangled. But never
of power, never of those who were the same, never of those who had
been fully human to the audience the day before, never of those who
had been respected. Never.

Des Pres says it is easier to kill if “the victim exhibits self-disgust; if he

BEAVER TALKS 97

cannot lift his eyes for humiliation, or if lifted they show only emptiness.

. . .”16 There is some pornography in which women are that abject, that
easy to kill, that close to being dead already. There is quite a lot of it;
and it is highly prized, expensive. There is still more pornography in
which the woman wets her lips and pushes out her ass and says hurt me.
She is painted so that the man cannot miss the mark: her lips are bright
red so that he can find the way into her throat; her vaginal lips are pink
or purple so that he cant miss; her anus is darkened while her buttocks
are flooded with light. Her eyes glisten. She smiles. Sticking knives up
her own vagina, she smiles. She comes. The Jews didn’t do it to them¬
selves and they didn’t orgasm. In contemporary Amerikan pornography,
of course, the Jews do do it to themselves — they, usually female, seek
out the Nazis, go voluntarily to concentration camps, beg a domineer¬
ing Nazi to hurt them, cut them, burn them — and they do climax, stu¬
pendously, to both sadism and death. But in life, the Jews didn’t orgasm.
Of course, neither do women; not in life. But no one, not even
Goebbels, said the Jews liked it. The society agreed that the Jews de¬
served it, but not that they wanted it and not that it gave them sexual
pleasure. There were no photographs from Ravensbriick concentration
camp of the prostitutes who were incarcerated there along with other
women gasping for breath in pleasure; the gypsies didn’t orgasm either.
There were no photographs — real or simulated — of the Jews smiling
and waving the Nazis closer, getting on the trains with their hands hap¬
pily fingering their exposed genitals or using Nazi guns, swastikas, or
Iron Crosses for sexual penetration. Such behaviors would not have
been credible even in a society that believed the Jews were both subhu¬
man and intensely sexual in the racist sense — the men rapists, the
women whores. The questions now really are: why is pornography cred¬
ible in our society? how can anyone believe it? And then: how subhu¬
man would women have to be for the pornography to be true? To the
men who use pornography, how subhuman are women? If men believe
the pornography because it makes them come — them, not the
women — what is sex to men and how will women survive it?

Pornography: Men Possessing Women — written from 1977 through

98 LIFE AND DEATH

1980, published in 1981 after two separate publishers reneged on con¬
tractual agreements to publish it (and a dozen more refused outright),
out of print in the United States for the last several years — takes power,
sadism, and dehumanization seriously. I am one of those serious
women. This book asks how power, sadism, and dehumanization work
in pornography — against women, for men — to establish the sexual and
social subordination of women to men. This book is distinguished from
most other books on pornography by its bedrock conviction that the
power is real, the cruelty is real, the sadism is real, the subordination is
real: the political crime against women is real. This book says that
power used to destroy women is atrocity. Pornography: Men Possessing
Women is not, and was never intended to be, an effete intellectual exer¬
cise. I want real change, an end to the social power of men over women;
more starkly, his boot off my neck. In this book, I wanted to dissect
male dominance; do an autopsy on it, but it wasn’t dead. Instead, there
were artifacts — films, photographs, books — an archive of evidence and
documentation of crimes against women. This was a living archive,
commercially alive, carnivorous in its use of women, saturating the en¬
vironment of daily life, explosive and expanding, vital because it was
synonymous with sex for the men who made it and the men who used
it — men so arrogant in their power over us that they published the pic¬
tures of what they did to us, how they used us, expecting submission
from us, compliance; we were supposed to follow the orders implicit in
the pictures. Instead, some of us understood that we could look at those
pictures and see them — see the men. Know thyself, if you are lucky
enough to have a self that hasn’t been destroyed by rape in its many
forms; and then, know the bastard on top of you. This book is about
him, the collective him: who he is; what he wants; what he needs (the
key to both his rage and his political vulnerability); how he’s diddling
you and why it feels so bad and hurts so much; what’s keeping him in
place on you; why he won’t move off of you; what it’s going to take to
blow him loose. A different kind of blow job. Is he scared? You bet.

Pornography: Men Possessing Women also puts pornography, finally,

BEAVER TALKS 99

into its appropriate context. A system of dominance and submission,
pornography has the weight and significance of any other historically
real torture or punishment of a group of people because of a condition
of birth; it has the weight and significance of any other historically real
exile of human beings from human dignity, the purging of them from a
shared community of care and rights and respect. Pornography hap¬
pens. It is not outside the world of material reality because it happens to
women, and it is not outside the world of material reality because it
makes men come. The mans ejaculation is real. The woman on whom
his semen is spread, a typical use in pornography, is real. Men character¬
ize pornography as something mental because their minds, their
thoughts, their dreams, their fantasies, are more real to them than
womens bodies or lives; in fact, men have used their social power to
characterize a $ 1 0-billion-a-year trade in women as fantasy. This is a
spectacular example of how those in power cannibalize not only people
but language. “We do not know,” wrote George Steiner, “whether the
study of the humanities, of the noblest that has been said and thought,
can do very much to humanize. We do not know; and surely there is
something rather terrible in our doubt whether the study and delight a
man finds in Shakespeare make him any less capable of organizing a
concentration camp.”17 As long as language is a weapon of power — used
to destroy the expressive abilities of the powerless by destroying their
sense of reality — we do know. Beaver knows.

Some have said that pornography is a superficial target; but, truly, this
is wrong. Pornography incarnates male supremacy. It is the DNA of
male dominance. Every rule of sexual abuse, every nuance of sexual
sadism, every highway and byway of sexual exploitation, is encoded in
it. It s what men want us to be, think we are, make us into; how men use
us; not because biologically they are men but because this is how their
social power is organized. From the perspective of the political activist,
pornography is the blueprint of male supremacy; it shows how male su¬
premacy is built. The political activist needs to know the blueprint. In
cultural terms, pornography is the fundamentalism of male dominance.

100 LIFE AND DEATH

Its absolutism on women and sexuality, its dogma, is merciless. Women
are consigned to rape and prostitution; heretics are disappeared and de¬
stroyed. Pornography is the essential sexuality of male power: of hate, of
ownership, of hierarchy; of sadism, of dominance. The premises of
pornography are controlling in every rape and every rape case, whenever
a woman is battered or prostituted, in incest, including in incest that oc¬
curs before a child can even speak, and in murder — murders of women
by husbands, lovers, and serial killers. If this is superficial, whats deep?

5

When I first wrote Pornography, I was going to use these lines from Eliz¬
abeth Barrett Brownings letters as an epigraph: “If a woman ignores
these wrongs, then may women as a sex continue to suffer them; there is
no help for any of us — let us be dumb and die.”18 I changed my mind,
because I decided that no woman deserved what pornography does to
women: no woman, however stupid or evil, treacherous or cowardly,
venal or corrupt; no woman. I also decided that even if some women
did, I didn’t. I also remembered the brave women, the women who had
survived, escaped; in the late 1970s, they were still silent, but I had
heard them. I don’t want them, ever, to be dumb and die; and certainly
not because some other woman somewhere is a coward or a fool or a
cynic or a kapo. There are women who will defend pornography, who
don’t give a damn. There are women who will use pornography, includ¬
ing on other women. There are women who will work for pornogra-
phers — not as so-called models but as managers, lawyers, publicists, and
paid writers of “opinion” and “journalism.” There are women of every
kind, all the time; there are always women who will ignore egregious
wrongs. My aspirations for dignity and equality do not hinge on perfec¬
tion in myself or in any other woman; only on the humanity we share,
fragile as that appears to be. I understand Elizabeth Barrett Brownings
desperation and the rage behind it, but I’m removing her curse. No
woman’s betrayal will make us dumb and dead — no more and never
again. Beaver s endured too much to turn back now.

BEAVER TALKS 101

NOTES

1. William Lloyd Garrison, Preface, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass , An
American Slave Written by Himself Frederick Douglass, ed. Benjamin Quarles
(Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1960), p.

5.

2. Public Hearings on Ordinances to Add Pornography as Discrimination
Against Women, Minneapolis City Council, Government Operations Com¬
mittee, December 12 and 13, 1983, in transcript, p. 16.

3. Name withheld, manuscript.

4. Sarah Wynter, pseudonym, manuscript, June 19, 1985.

5. Name withheld, manuscript; also testimony before the Subcommittee on Juve¬
nile Justice of the Committee on the Judiciary, United States Senate, Septem¬
ber 12, 1984.

6. See Public Hearings, Minneapolis, pp. 38-39.

7. See Public Hearings, Minneapolis, pp. 39-41.

8. See Public Hearings, Minneapolis, p. 41.

9. See Public Hearings, Minneapolis, pp. 42-46.

10. See Public Hearings, Minneapolis, pp. 65-66.

1 1 . See Public Hearings, Minneapolis, pp. 66-67.

12. Direct quotations are from the Statement of Jayne Stamen, issued by Women
Against Pornography, February 14, 1988.

13. Terrence Des Pres, The Survivor: An Anatomy of Life in the Death Camps (New
York: Pocket Books, 1977), p. 39.

14. Toby Summer, pseudonym, “Women, Lesbians and Prostitution: A Working-
class Dyke Speaks Out Against Buying Women for Sex,” Lesbian Ethics , vol. 2,
no. 3, summer 1987, p. 37.

15. Roger Manvell and Heinrich Fraenkel, Himmler (New York: G. P. Putnams
Sons, 1965), p. 105.

16. Des Pres, The Survivor, p. 68.

17. George Steiner, Language and Silence (New York: Atheneum, 1977), pp. 65-

66.

18. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning in Mary
Daly, Gyn/ Ecology: The Metaethics of Radical Feminism (Boston: Beacon Press,
1978), p. 153.

RESISTANCE

MASS MURDER IN MONTREAL

The Sexual Politics of Killing Women

It is very hard to think of an adequate way to mourn, but we know
that tears are not adequate. We know how to cry. The question is:
how do we fight back?

We might have wanted to claim the benefits of liberal feminism. We
might have wanted to say, “Look at us — aren’t we wonderful? Do you
know how many women are now in law schools? Do you know how
many women are now on construction sites?” Well, not enough. But in
the last year, since these fourteen women were murdered,* feminists can¬
not stand up with any sense of pride and say: “Look at what we have
done.” We stand today with grief and terror and rage. There is no liberal
feminist credit to claim. We want to say: “They were in that school be¬
cause of us. You see, we broke down the barriers.” That is now a two-
edged sword. Yes, they were in the school because of us; we did break
down the barriers. And this man, who was not crazy, who was political in
his thinking and in his action, understood the meaning of those barriers
coming down, and he committed a political act so that we would retreat,
so that new barriers could be built, and so that women would not have
the heart or courage or patience or endurance to keep breaking barriers.

^Fourteen women students were murdered on December 6, 1989, at the Ecole Polytech¬
nique, the University de Montr^als engineering school.

105

106 LIFE AND DEATH

We have been asked by many people to accept that women are making
progress, because one sees our presence in these places where we weren’t
before. And those of us who are berated for being radicals have been say¬
ing: “That is not the way we measure progress. We count the number of
rapes. We count the women who are being battered. We keep track of the
children who are being raped by their fathers. We count the dead. And
when those numbers start to change in a way that is meaningful, we will
then talk to you about whether or not we can measure progress.”

All of the accomplishments of feminism — for which, by the way, we
are not often thanked (and that is why we rush in to claim anything we
can) — have been made not always with deep politeness, but they have
been made with extraordinary patience and self-restraint, by which I
mean: we have not used guns. We have used words. We have marched
saying words. And we are punished for achieving everything we achieve;
we are punished for every statement we make; we are punished for every
act toward self-determination. Every assertion of dignity is punished ei¬
ther socially by the great media out there — when they choose to recog¬
nize us, it is usually through ridicule and contempt — or by the men
around us, who are the foot soldiers in this very real war in which the vi¬
olence is almost exclusively on one side. The purpose of the punishment
is very clear, whether the punishment itself is an act of forced sex or
being beaten or being insulted with words or being harassed walking
down the street or being sexually harassed in your place of work: “Get
inside. Shut your mouth. Do what I tell you.” Which is usually reduce-
able to: “Clean the house and open your legs. ” Many of us have said no.
We say it in different ways. We say it at different times. But we say no
and we’ve said it loudly enough and collectively enough that it has
begun to resonate in the public sphere. No, we will not. No.

There is an answer to our no. A semiautomatic gun is one answer.
There are also knives. This is not a pleasant conversation that we re having.

The press, the establishment politicians, and the social pundits are
using differences between this mass murder and the usual patterns of vi¬
olence against women to confuse the issues, as if the differences are what
matter and not what is the same. We know what is the same. So, first.

MASS MURDER IN MONTREAL 107

let us talk analytically about the differences, instead of just letting them
manipulate the differences to make this slaughter into an event that
simply will never be replicated in all the history of the world.

Women, as you know, are usually killed in our own homes, in what is
called private, because a man and a woman together are not considered a
social unit. It is him, he is the human being. She is his subordinate. The
privacy is his, and in it he can do what he wants to her. We are usually
hurt without the scrutiny of cameras and announcements. We are usu¬
ally hurt by men we know and especially by men with whom we have
been intimate, by which I mean sexually involved. In the society in
which we live, intercourse is a phenomenon of ownership of women.
Men who have had sex with women believe or feel or think — whatever
the right word is — that that woman, then, in some way, belongs to them.
And, indeed, all of the euphemisms for sexual intercourse in English ex¬
press ownership: possession — I possessed her; the verb to have — I had her;
take — I took her; sex as conquest — I conquered her; violation — I violated
her. All of these words and expressions are used as synonyms for sexual
intercourse. None of these words are the so-called dirty words.

Women are usually killed in isolation, not in a public place. Women
are usually killed simply for being women, not for being feminists. The
women who are most often killed by strangers are women who live out
on the streets — women in prostitution or homeless women. This popu¬
lation of women is overwhelmingly characterized by being doubly dis¬
enfranchised, which is to say that they come from racially stigmatized
groups. They are impoverished even by the standards of women, and I
think that it is really a mistake to say that they are being hurt by
strangers, because in fact, when you look at the transaction, what hap¬
pens to prostitutes on the streets is a form of date rape — or date death,
really. A man buys a date and he hurts or kills the woman. A significant
number of those women who are killed are called “Jane Doe.” No one
knows where Jane Doe came from. No one knows who her people are.
There is no place for her. She has no home in which to be killed.

It used to be that women were sexual chattel under the law, so that
the man had the backing of the state. Now, men exercise their sense of

108 LIFE AND DEATH

possession and ownership in a more laissez-faire manner. They bear
more personal responsibility for making sure that you stay subordinate.
It’s hard on them: you know how rebellious you are, and they have to
work twenty-four hours a day at this, which can’t be easy. That is what
you are reading in the newspapers even as men write about these mur¬
ders — that they, the men, are suffering. But not enough. Not yet.

One of the differences in the way Marc Lepine killed these women is
that when women are killed, it is almost never called murder. There are
many euphemisms: “it was a family fight,” “father kills wife and chil¬
dren.” We re told that there has been a “domestic tragedy” instead of a
mass murder. Marc Ldpine was a mass murderer. This was not some lit¬
tle family soap opera in which one man has killed several people and
what those people have in common is a shared powerlessness in relation
to him and the fact that, as far as society is concerned, he owns them or
has an implicit right to own them.

We are frequently told that the man has been under terrible stress.
Hes been having a terrible time. Its very pathetic and pitiful — for him.
We are also told that his wife provoked it. And when prostitutes are
raped or killed, the policy of the police in the United States has been
not to begin to take the murders seriously until the number of corpses
are in the double digits. That has been official state policy.

These women were murdered — because they were women but also
because they were engineering students; because they were learning a
male science; because they wanted sacred male knowledge. They were
trespassing on sacred male ground. They wanted to be engineers, and
that was taken to be a militant act of aggression on their part.

What is the same in their deaths is that Marc Lupine, along with other
men who hurt or kill women, cannot, could not, coexist outside a con¬
text in which women were completely submissive. He couldn’t tolerate
it. And when men can’t stand something, they do something about it.
And here is the deepest criticism of us: when we can’t stand something,
we often don’t. Marc Lupine felt he had a right to do what he did. He
said: “Life does not bring me joy.” The boy was looking for joy; he
wanted to bring the fun back into his life. But there is a precondition for

MASS MURDER IN MONTREAL 109

joy in masculine terms, and that precondition is that women are in their
place, a subordinate place. You cant have a lot of fun in the world as a
man if women anywhere in your perception are getting out of control.

I have seen a lot of the press up here say the equivalent of “I don’t want
to be associated with Marc Lepine.” Well, yes, it is true that not every
man picks up a semiautomatic gun, but a lot of them don’t have to, be¬
cause they have pens. And a lot of them don’t have to, because they exer¬
cise destructive, annihilating power in other ways over women. They de¬
stroy women body and soul, but yes, the shells are allowed to keep
walking around. The shells are useful. Remember the part about lying
down and spreading your legs. You don’t have to have a heart. You don’t
have to have a spirit. Marc Lupine reacted the way that white people in
the Amerikan South reacted when the “Whites Only” signs started com¬
ing down — that is to say, with violence. And feminists are the active
agents of change. Were the people who are responsible for polluting his
environment. We have done that — by introducing women into the pro¬
fessions, into working-class jobs from which women were excluded, and
by introducing women into history. I hope you have read Marc Lupines
letter, which was just recently published [released by the police to the
press one year after the murders], in which he said that war is a male ter¬
ritory, part of masculine heroism, male identity, and even the suggestion
that women had behaved heroically in a situation of war was a deep po¬
litical insult to him. This is a masculinity that is based on the erasure of
women, metaphorically and literally, and what I want you to note about
it is its extraordinary cowardice, its unbelievable cowardice. In the mas¬
sacre of fourteen women, the cowardice is clear, but the cowardice is
clear in every act of rape as well. In the United States, of the rapes that
are reported, 43 percent are pair or gang rapes. Of that, 27 percent are
committed by three or more men; 16 percent by two men. We are living
in the world as it is not because men are physically stronger than we are
but because they gang up to attack us and hurt us. In every act of brutal¬
ity toward us, what we see is a coward. The husband who batters his wife
needs the support of the state to keep doing it. And he gets it — he gets
the compliance of the society; he gets reinforcement from the media that

110 LIFE AND DEATH

tell him battery is really a sexy thing to do; he gets his $ 1 0-billion-a-year
pornography industry in which women are the raw material bought and
sold for him, so that he can have some of that joy Marc Lupine talked
about. The men who use women as prostitutes are also big, bad, and
brave. They take women who have been sexually molested as children,
who are poor, who are homeless, who have no help or solace in this soci¬
ety, and they use them. If you look at male violence against women, what
you will see is the cowardice of that violence.

The way men use women in prostitution is a lot like gang rape, in the
sense that what men do to women they do for the sake of each other: “I
am a man, another man was here before me, another man will be here
after me, he and I have masculinity in common because we both use
her — she is simply the vehicle by which I experience our collective su¬
periority to anyone who is like her. I own her because I have bought her.
I own her because I have bought her — both the wife and the prostitute;
I am morally superior to her because I have bought her; she belongs to
me and her behavior is mine to control.”

I saw a sociologist on television last night, a male sociologist, per¬
fectly fine guy. In his learned opinion, which was exceptionally erudite,
the massacre was the “first” — and I wrote it down because I didn’t want
to exaggerate — “the first political act against women.” The courts don’t
commit political acts against women when they are organized to sup¬
port the rapists and the batterers, no; nor when they take women’s chil¬
dren away from them, and, as is happening in the United States, give
them to fathers who are raping them. That’s not political. Nothing that
has ever happened to us before is political. We are supposed to believe
that we have our private lives and, well, a good man is hard to find. But
you just keep searching and searching and eventually, hopefully before
you are brain-dead from being beaten, you will find him. That’s not po¬
litical; it’s personal, which is why everyone talks about psychologists.
They are here to convince you that this is personal, not political. And
the authorities here in Montreal are trying to convince you that if you
organize politically against male violence, you will be responsible for
making men angrier. On every television show, in every newspaper, at

MASS MURDER IN MONTREAL 111

the forum last night at which city officials spoke and answered ques¬
tions* we were told: “Men haven’t really gotten used to these new roles
for women. That’s why they’re hurting women.’’

Well, men used to have the legal right to beat their wives, so why
were they doing it then? Something has changed, but their behavior has
stayed the same. They beat their wives when the state said they could
beat their wives, and now that the law has changed, they beat their
wives.

I think that what all these male authorities are trying to say is this:
“We don’t understand why he killed them, because he hadn’t fucked
them. If he had fucked them, we would understand it. And it would
have something to do with us. It would be private — it would be none of
your business. But we would understand it. But when a man kills a
woman with whom he doesn’t have that relationship, he’s crazy. Not
stressed; crazy”

Male control of women through law and through the church has
broken down considerably. Now, that’s the kind of statement one can
make as long as one doesn’t say, “We did it.” But we did it. The reason
we are not chattel in marriage is that we changed those damn laws. We
have created a rebellion of women in marriage. There are women who
do not accept that marriage means that men have bought sexual access.
We changed that; we did that. So, what do men do if they don’t have the
law that they had before, the police that go with the law that they had
before, the power of the church that they had before? Well, Jet me tell
you: a $10-billion-a-year pornography industry in the United States
turns each man into his own state, his own church, and tells him how to
control and hurt women. Systems of power are capable of reorganizing
themselves, and the fact that things look different does not mean that
the hierarchy has changed. It’s the hierarchy we have to look at, not the
fact that some social patterns of behavior are different. We have to look
at who is on top and who is on the bottom, and then, if we have heart
enough to do it, we have to look at what he is doing to her while he is
on top and she is on the bottom.

I am astonished, of course, that these intelligent people who keep this

112 LIFE AND DEATH

machine going don’t understand why we recognize in this massacre
something familiar instead of something completely anomalous. What
we recognize as being familiar is the hate that is in the act, the hate for
women, the bitterness and resentment against women who are not
being sexually submissive — at that moment at least — and the rage, his
rage toward us. I doubt that there are any women in this room who
don’t recognize from our own lives those elements in men, and we see it
in this act, and therefore this act seems familiar, not bizarre and entirely
unique.

Some of the women who were murdered may have been feminists
and some not. Women do not get the right to say, “I am, I am.” We are
all just the same, one way or another. We can look at this and we can
understand that the men around us will widely experience any act of
dignity on our part as an act of feminism, whether it is or it is not; any
act of stepping outside the circle of submission as an act of feminism,
whether it is or it is not. I want us to understand that as well as Marc
Lepine did.

There are two usual strategies for dealing with a dead woman when
she has been murdered by a man. One is the one you are seeing here,
which is: we look at the man and we socially create sympathy for him.
The other is that we look at the woman or women and we find out
what’s wrong with her or them. Maybe if three women had been killed,
we would be reading about all the terrible things they had done — by the
age of twenty-one. And the media would be trying to convince the pub¬
lic-at-large that the victims deserved what happened to them because,
after all, were they virgins? How many men had they been with? This is
the way murdered women are usually treated. But because of the root¬
edness of these women in this community, because of the social power
of their families, because of the fact that, with respect to other people,
they themselves are part of an elite, these women are not being treated
this way — yet. The newspapers won’t do it. Books by misogynist men
will. Our intrepid investigative reporter or sociologist or psychologist
will go out there and find the men who know the real dirt and publish a
book. This is not over yet.

MASS MURDER IN MONTREAL 113

I would like to say something that I find very difficult to say. It is not
a cheap remark. I think that one of the most important commitments
that anyone can make to life or to feminism is to make sure that you de¬
serve your death if you die at the hands of a misogynist, that you have
done everything that he in his mind accuses you of, that every act of
treason he is killing you for is one you have committed. Like many
women, I have a long history of violence against me, and I say, to my in¬
creasing shame, that everyone who has hurt me is still walking around.
They re fine. Nothing has happened to them. And when I look at my
own life, I think about the difference between being beaten because I
didn’t clean the refrigerator and having my life threatened because I am
fighting the pornographers. There is a better and a worse, and it is bet¬
ter to encounter anything when you have made a choice that puts you
where you want to be, fighting for your own freedom and fighting for
the freedom of the women around you. Feminists should remember
that while we often don’t take ourselves very seriously, the men around
us often do. I think that the way we can honor these women who were
executed, for crimes that they may or may not have committed — which
is to say, for political crimes — is to commit every crime for which they
were executed, crimes against male supremacy, crimes against the right
to rape, crimes against the male ownership of women, crimes against
the male monopoly of public space and public discourse. We have to
stop men from hurting women in everyday life, in ordinary life, in the
home, in the bed, in the street, and in the engineering school. We have
to take public power away from men whether they like it or not and no
matter what they do. If we have to fight back with arms, then we have to
fight back with arms. One way or another we have to disarm men. We
have to be the women who stand between men and the women they
want to hurt. We have to end the impunity of men, which is what they
have, for hurting women in all the ways they systematically do hurt us.

The feminist is the woman who is there not because she is his
woman, but because she is the sister of the woman he is being a weapon
against. Feminism exists so that no woman ever has to face her oppres¬
sor in a vacuum, alone. It exists to break down the privacy in which men

114 LIFE AND DEATH

rape, beat, and kill women. What 1 am saying is that every one of us has
the responsibility to be the woman Marc Lupine wanted to murder. We
need to live with that honor, that courage. We need to put fear aside.
We need to endure. We need to create. We need to resist, and we need
to stop dedicating the other 364 days of the year to forgetting every¬
thing we know. We need to remember every day, not only on December
6. We need to consecrate our lives to what we know and to our resis¬
tance to the male power used against us.

TERROR, TORTURE, AND RESISTANCE

We re here because of an emergency. You all know that. We want
to speak about the progress we’ve made, but we know that
women are not any safer from rape now than when we started out. I’m
glad that the Canadian Mental Health Association is concerned with
our health — because I for one am sick to death. I am sick from the

numbers of women who are being brutalized and raped and sodomized,
who are being killed, who are missing, who in a women’s culture of non¬
violence don’t hurt the people who are hurting us. We take our own
lives. We commit suicide.

So many women I have known have spent every day of their lives
fighting to stay alive, because of the despair they carry around with
them from the sexual abuse that they have experienced in their lives.
And these are brave, creative women. These are women who thought
that they had a right to dignity, to individuality, to freedom — but in
fact they couldn’t walk down a city block in freedom. Many of them
were raped as children in their own homes, by relatives — by fathers,
uncles, brothers — before they were “women.” Many of them were
beaten by the men who loved them — their husbands, lovers. Many of
them were tortured by those men. When you look at what happened to
these women, you want to say, “Amnesty International, where are

115

116 LIFE AND DEATH

you?” — because the prisons for women are our homes. We live under
martial law. We live in a rape culture. Men have to be sent to prison to
live in a culture that is as rapist as the normal home in North America.
We live under what amounts to a military curfew, enforced by rapists.
We say we re free citizens in a free society. But we lie. We lie about it
every day.

We survive through amnesia, by being unable to remember what
happened to us. We survive by not remembering the name of the
woman who was in the newspaper yesterday, who was walking some¬
where and was missing. What was her name? There are too many of
them. I am sick to death of not being able to remember the names.
There’s one name especially I can never remember: the woman who was
gang-raped on the pool table in New Bedford, Massachusetts, by four
men while everyone else in the bar stood and watched and cheered.
That woman died in an automobile accident, the kind the police will al¬
ways call suicide, within one year after the rape trial. Three months be-
fore this woman was raped on that pool table, Hustler ran a spread of a
woman being gang-raped on a pool table. Everything that was done to
the woman in the pornography was done to that woman, in that bar,
that night. After the New Bedford gang rape, Hustler ran a photograph
of a woman in a pornographic pose, sitting on a pool table, depicted
like a postcard, saying, “Welcome to New Bedford.” The rape trial was
televised in the United States. The ratings beat out the soap operas. Peo¬
ple watched it as entertainment every day. The woman was driven out
of town, even though the rapists were convicted. Within one year she
was dead and no matter how hard I try, I can t remember her name.
Hollywood made a movie called The Accused , a brilliant, incredible
movie in which Jodie Foster, through her artistry, shows us that a
woman is a human being. It takes two hours to establish for a main¬
stream audience that in fact that’s true, so that at the point when we
reach the gang-rape scene, we understand that someone has been hurt
in a way that goes beyond the sum of the physical brutalities that were
done to her. The Hollywood version had a happy ending. The voyeurs
were convicted of having incited the rape, and the woman triumphed. I

TERROR, TORTURE, AND RESISTANCE 117

sat in the theater thinking, But she’s dead. What’s her name ? Why cant I
remember her namet

And then there are the women whose names I do remember: for in¬
stance, Jennifer Levin, a woman who was murdered in New York in
Central Park by a man who had been her lover. And the reason I know
her name is that when she was murdered by this lover of hers, the New
York tabloid press put her name on the front page in headlines to say
what a slut she was. Now, I didn’t buy any of those papers; it’s just that I
couldn’t leave my house and not read the headlines. So the boy goes to
trial — a white boy, an upper-class boy, wealthy. It gets called uthe prep-
pie murder case.” And we hear for the first time about something called
the rough-sex defense. It goes as follows: “She wanted to have really
rough, painful, humiliating sex. She was an aggressive bitch and she
tried to tie him up. And she hurt him, and he got so upset that in trying
to free himself, he accidentally strangled her, with her bra.” In this sce¬
nario, the way women are treated when women are raped is suddenly
the way women are treated when women are murdered: she provoked it.
She wanted it. She liked it and she got what she deserved. When the
head of our sex-crimes unit, Linda Fairstein, tried to get a conviction of
this man, Robert Chambers, for murder, she had a problem: she
couldn’t find a motive. She didn’t think that she could convince the jury
that there was any reason for Robert Chambers to kill Jennifer Levin.
Of course, there wasn’t any reason, except that he wanted to — and he
could. He plea-bargained, so the jury decision never came in. Most of
us thought he was going to be acquitted. After he plea-bargained, videos
were shown on television of Mr. Chambers at sex parties making fun of
strangling the woman — sitting naked, surrounded by women, reenact¬
ing the murder and laughing about it. We live in a world where men kill
women and the motives are not personal at all. As any woman in this
room who has ever been beaten or raped knows, it is one of the most
impersonal experiences you will ever have. You are a married woman.
You live with a man. You think that he knows you and you know him.
But when he begins to hurt you, he does it because you’re a woman —
not because you’re whoever you are.

118 LIFE AND DEATH

I want us to stop lying. I think that we tell a lot of lies to get through
every day, and I want us to stop. One of the lies we tell is that this kind
of woman hating is not as pernicious, as lethal, as sadistic, as vicious as
other kinds of hatred that are directed against people because of a con¬
dition of birth. We have recognized some of the historical atrocities that
have occurred. We say to ourselves, this isn’t the same. I’m Andrea. I’m
Jane. I’m me. But everyone has said that. Every Jew pushed onto a train
said, “But why are you doing this? I’m me.” The Nazis didn’t have a per¬
sonal motive that could be understood in those terms.

We are in a situation of emergency. You know that. There is no
longer the belief on any woman’s part that she will be exempt whatever
her politics, whatever her class, whatever her race, whatever her profes¬
sion. Only liars and deniers count on not being raped, beaten, used,
forced — let alone having freedom. We have a right to freedom.

What happens when you’re walking down that street? You can’t get
lost in thought, can you? You better know who’s around you at every
moment. We live in a police state where every man is deputized. I want
us to stop smiling. I want us to stop saying we’re fine. I want us to stop
saying that this can be fixed after it happens. We may be able to use
whatever it is we learn from being hurt, but can it be fixed? No. It can¬
not be fixed. So the question is, How do we stop it from happening?

We have had a brilliant movement that has saved many lives. I, espe¬
cially, thank and honor those of you who work in rape crisis centers and
in battered women’s shelters. I wish to hell you had been there during
some earlier parts of my life. Anyone currently in her forties could not
have had the help you provide. But we have to change our focus: we
have to stop it from happening. Otherwise we accept as our condition
that the rape of women and brutality toward women are normal, and
the question is how to regulate it, how to reduce it. Maybe men could
go to more hockey games than they go to now — you know, have other
outlets, diversions?

I’m here to say that the war against women is a real war. There’s noth¬
ing abstract about it. This is a war in which his fist is in your face. We
walk around saying, “It didn’t happen today” or “It hasn’t happened yet”

TERROR, TORTURE, AND RESISTANCE 119

or ‘Tve been lucky for the last three months” or “Oh, I found a good
one now. Nice one, he won’t hurt me too much. He may insult me a lot,
but he won’t hurt me.” Maybe it’s true and maybe it isn’t — but we have
to find out how to stop men from hurting women at all, under any cir¬
cumstances.

You know that most women are hurt in their homes. You know that
most women who are murdered are killed in their homes by intimates,
not by strangers. A political movement, as I understand it, exists to
change the way social reality is organized. That means we need to under¬
stand everything about the way this system works. Every woman who has
had experience with sexual violence of any kind has not just pain, and not
just hurt, but knowledge — knowledge of male supremacy, knowledge of
what it is, knowledge of what it feels like — and can begin to think strate¬
gically about how to stop it. We are living under a reign of terror. I want
us to stop accepting that that’s normal. And the only way that we can stop
accepting that that’s normal is if we refuse to have amnesia every day of
our lives — if we remember what we know about the world we live in and
get up in the morning determined to do something about it.

We need to understand how male violence works. That’s one of the
reasons that studying pornography and fighting the pornography indus¬
try are so important — because that’s the Pentagon, the war room.
Pornographers train the soldiers; then the soldiers go out and do the ac¬
tions on us. Were the population that the war is against. This has been
a terrible war. Our resistance has not been serious; it has not been
enough. The minute we think we might have a right to do something
about that pornography shop — legal or illegal — we stop thinking. We
don’t believe we have any legal right to do much about it, let alone an il¬
legal right. Inside us, this worthlessness that we carry around — which is
the main consequence of the fear that we live with — makes us sub¬
scribe, in terms of our behavior, to the system that says that the life of
the man who wants to hurt us is worth more than ours. We accept it. A
lot of our ability to survive is based on forgetting it as much as we can. I
understand that I am talking to women who spend more time than
most women with the reality of sexual abuse. If the premise is that the

120 LIFE AND DEATH

freedom of women matters and that the equality of women matters,
then “education” is not enough. You know that men are educated. They
know rape and battery are wrong.

The rapist still knows more about rape than we do. He’s keeping secrets
from us; were not keeping secrets from him. The pimps know how to
manipulate and sell women. They’re not stupid men. I challenge the no¬
tion that rape and prostitution and other vicious violations of womens
rights are abnormal and that the regular, sanctioned male use of women
in intercourse is unrelated to the “excesses” that we seem to be just falling
over all the time. We women who want to be hurt so much, its actually us
provoking it all. When a woman has been raped and goes into court, why
is it that the judges’ premises are the same as pornographers’? Intercourse
has been a material way of owning women. This is real, this is concrete.
We know it; most of us have experienced it. I’m talking about history, and
I’m talking about sexuality not as an idea in your head but as what hap¬
pens to a woman when she is in bed with a man. If we are not willing to
look at intercourse as a political institution — direcdy related to the ways
in which we are socialized to accept our inferior status, and one of the
ways in which we are controlled — we are not ever going to get to the roots
of the ways in which male dominance works in our lives.

The basic premise about women is that we are born to be fucked. That
is it. Now, that means a lot of things. For a lot of years it meant that mar¬
riage was outright ownership of a womans body and intercourse was a
right of marriage. That meant that intercourse was per se an act of force,
because the power of the state mandated that the woman accept inter¬
course. She belonged to the man. The cultural remnant of this is that in
our society, men experience intercourse as possession of women. The cul¬
ture talks about intercourse as conquest — women surrendering, women
being taken. This is a paradigm for rape, not a paradigm for reciprocity,
equality, mutuality, or freedom. When the premise is that women exist
on earth in order to be sexually available to men for intercourse, it means
that our very bodies are seen as having boundaries that have less integrity
than male bodies do. Men have orifices; men can be penetrated. The
point of homophobia is to direct men toward women, to punish men for

TERROR, TORTURE, AND RESISTANCE 121

not using women. Homophobia is an acknowledgment of how aggressive
and how dangerous men know male sexuality can be for women. When a
woman goes into court and she says, “I’ve been raped,” the judge, the de¬
fense lawyer, the press, and many other people say: no, you had inter¬
course. And she says, “No, I was raped.” And they say a little bit of force
is fine. It s still true. It hasn’t changed. When you look at male domina¬
tion as a social system, what you see is that it is organized to make certain
that women are sexually available for men. That is its basic premise. We
have a choice, and the choice is not in the political science books. The
universities are not trying to work out this level of choice for us. The
question is, What comes first, mens need to get laid or womens dignity?
And I am telling you that you cannot separate the so-called abuses of
women from the so-called normal uses of women. The history of women
in the world as sexual chattel makes it impossible to do that.

There are other implications — because as sex is currently socialized and
existing in our society, men cannot have sex with women who are their
equals. They’re incapable of it. That’s what objectification is about. In
order to get a response from men, one has to be the right kind of thing.
Now, think about what that means: the woman polices herself. She makes
decisions that make her freedom impossible, because if she is going to live,
if she is going to make a living, she is going to have to be the kind of ob¬
ject to which the man will respond in a way that is important to him, in a
way that is sexual. Sexual harassment on the job is not some kind of acci¬
dent. The fact that women are migrants in the workplace is not an acci¬
dent. When you enter into the sexual agreement to be a thing, you then
narrow your own possibilities for freedom. You then accept, as a basic
premise of your life, that you will be available, not challenge his sexual
hegemony, not demand equality in intimacy. After all, you’ve already given
up your own body, to the plastic surgeon or to the lover or voyeur. The
women, the mothers, who bound their daughters’ feet so that their daugh¬
ters’ feet were three inches long — crippled — did it because that was the
standard of beauty. If a woman wanted to eat, a man had to find her beau¬
tiful. If that meant she couldn’t walk for the rest of her life, it was a trade¬
off that had to be made. It was Let’s Make a Deal. And we women are still

122 LIFE AND DEATH

playing Let s Make a Deal. Instead of deciding what we want, what we
need, we have a second-class standard for our own freedom. We’re afraid,
not because we re cowards — goddammit, we are not cowards; we are brave
people — but instead of fighting the system that forces us to make these
deals, we use our bravery to sustain ourselves when we make one. When
we make a choice it has got to be a choice rooted in equality — not in the
fact that every woman is still one man away from welfare.

In the United States, violence against women is a major pastime. It is a
sport, an amusement, a mainstream cultural entertainment. It is real and
it is pervasive. It is epidemic. It’s very hard to make anyone notice it be¬
cause there is so much of it. In the United States we have had thirty years
of the total saturation of the society with pornography. In this thirty years,
we have had many people who have wanted us to study the problem. We
have had many people who have wanted us to debate the issues. We have
studied, we have debated, we have done it all. There has been the devel¬
opment in the United States of a very major population of men called se¬
rial killers — men who rape and kill mostly women, sometimes children.
They usually mutilate the bodies. Sometimes they have sex before. Some¬
times they have sex after. Now, we can say it’s a power trip, but the fact of
the matter is that for them, that’s the way they have sex: by mutilating and
hurting and killing us. We have in the United States a continuing epi¬
demic of murders of women. We have huge missing pieces of our popula¬
tions in cities. In Kansas City, the police say that since 1 97 7, sixty women
have been killed. Three quarters of them have been black. They’ve been
women in prostitution. They have been mutilated, or left in what the po¬
lice and the media — the euphemisms are extraordinary — call suggestive
positions. One of the patterns of serial killers is that they do to their vic¬
tims the things they have seen in pornography, and they leave their vic¬
tims posed as pornography. Pornography is involved in the biographies of
all serial killers. Sometimes they use it to stalk their victim, sometimes
they use it to plan their crime. Sometimes they use it to rev themselves up
to commit the acts. Yet people keep insisting that there must be some¬
thing in the air or in the water. How is it that all these guys get these ideas
to do all these things? What could it be? Let’s go on an egg hunt and try to

TERROR, TORTURE, AND RESISTANCE 123

find it. Well, the fact of the matter is, its in the pornography being sold
everywhere. Pornography says go get them, do this to them, its fun. The
pornography says they’ll like it, too. That’s the truth, and society has to
stay organized so that there are enough women to provide the raw mater¬
ial for that pornography.

The conditions that provide the raw material are poverty, usually in¬
cestuous child abuse, and homelessness. We didn’t have that knowledge
before; we do now. What happens to women? How does it happen? We
now know a lot. It is time to begin to act on what we know. We know
that pornography causes sexual abuse. We know that in the United
States the average age of rapists is going down. It’s now boys in their
young teen-age years who are committing a preponderance of first as¬
saults against young girls. There are young boys who stick things in in¬
fants and kill them. When asked why they did it that way, they say
they’ve seen it in pornography. There are young boys who take guns and
try to put them in womens vaginas. Where did they see it? Where did
they learn it? Ask them. Ask the ones who have been put in jail, in
places for juvenile sex offenders. They will tell you, “I saw it in pornog¬
raphy.” Now, what makes somebody want to do it may be different than
how he learns to do it. But the fact of the matter is that if you live in a
society that is saturated with this kind of woman hating, you live in a
society that has marked you as a target for rape, for battery, for pjostitu-
tion, or for death. These are, in my view, the facts.

I want you to talk about the violence against women, and you’re here
to talk about healing. I wish that you could raise the dead. That is what I
would like to see. This is a political point. One of the reasons that the
Right reaches so many women is that the Right has a transcendent god
who says I will heal all your hurt and all your pain and all your wounds:
“I died for you. I will heal you.” Feminists do not have a transcendent
god who can heal that way. We have ideas about fairness and justice and
equality. And we have to find ways to make them real. We don’t have
magic. We don’t have supernatural powers. And we can’t keep sticking
together women who have been broken into little pieces. Fighting back is
as close to healing as we are going to come. It is important to understand

124 LIFE AND DEATH

that we will live with a fair amount of pain for most of our lives. If your
first priority is to live a painless life, you will not be able to help yourself
or other women. What matters is to be a warrior. Having a sense of
honor about political struggle is healing. Discipline is necessary. Actions
against men who hurt women must be real. We need to win. We are in a
war. We have not been fighting back. We need to win this war. We need
a political resistance. We need it aboveground. We need it with our law¬
makers, with our government officials. We need it with our professional
women. We need it aboveground. We need it underground too.

Everything that didn’t happen to you — and I apply this to myself; it’s
part of the way that I survive — is a little slack in your leash. You weren’t
raped when you were three, or you weren’t raped when you were ten, or
you weren’t battered, or you weren’t in prostitution — whatever it is that
you managed to miss is the measure of your freedom and strength, and
the measure of what you owe to other women. I’m not asking you to be
martyrs; I’m asking you to give up your lies. I’m asking you to live your
lives, honorably and with dignity. I’m asking you to fight. I’m asking
you to do things for women that women do all the time in political
struggle for men. Women put our bodies on the line in political strug¬
gles in which both sexes are involved, but we do not do it for women.
I’m not asking you to get caught; I’m asking you to escape. I’m asking
you to run for your life. If you need to run through a brick wall, run
through it. If you get some bruises on your arms, it’s better than having
him give the bruises to you because you were standing still. None of us
has the right to stand still.

I ask you to consider addressing the pornography issue in social pol¬
icy terms, which I believe means passing some version of the civil rights
law that we developed in Minneapolis. Obscenity laws say that womens
bodies are dirty — that’s what they’re based on. Criminal laws do not
stop the pornography industry. The business can go on; somebody else
can manage it. Instead we must make men accountable for the ways in
which women are exploited in pornography, recognize it as a form of sex
discrimination, understand that it destroys women’s chances in life, and
say, wYou are going to pay a penalty. We’re going to take your money

TERROR, TORTURE, AND RESISTANCE 125

away from you. We re going to find a way to hurt you back. No more
free ride for you, Mr. Pimp. You’re going to pay a price.’’

I think it’s very important that rape, battery, and prostitution be rec¬
ognized legally as violations of the civil rights of women, as human
rights violations of the greatest magnitude. It’s important that we con¬
struct a legal system that acknowledges our dignity by acknowledging
our wholeness as human beings.

I am asking you to retaliate against rapists, to organize against rapists.
We know who the rapists are. We know because they do it to us. He did
it to me; he did it to my best friend. We know who he is. We know that
it happened: when, where, and how. I’m asking you to take rape seri¬
ously. If the law won’t do anything, you must do something.

I’m asking you to close down the pornography outlets wherever you
can and to stop the distribution wherever you can, in whatever way you
can.

I am asking you to stop passing: stop having feminism be part of a se¬
cret life. I am asking you not to apologize to anyone for standing up for
women.

I am asking you to organize political support for women who kill
men who have been hurting them. They have been isolated and alone.
This is a political issue. They’re being punished, because at some mo¬
ment in their lives, they resisted a domination that they were expected
to accept. They stand there in jail for us, for every one of us who got
away without having to pull the trigger, for every one of us who lived to
tell about getting away without having the trigger pulled on us.

I am asking you to stop men who beat women. Get them jailed or get
them killed, but stop them. Men who rape make a choice to rape. And
men who beat women make a choice to beat women. And we women
now have choices that we have to make to fight back.

I am asking you to look at every single political possibility for fight¬
ing back — instead of saying, “I asked him, I told him, but he just
wouldn’t stop.’’ We need to find ways to do it together. But we need to
do it.

PORNOGRAPHY HAPPENS

For twenty years, people that you know and people that you do not
know inside the womens movement, with its great grassroots
breadth and strength, have been trying to communicate something very
simple: pornography happens. It happens. Lawyers, call it what you
want — call it speech, call it act, call it conduct. Catharine A. MacKin¬
non and I called it a practice when we described it in the antipornogra¬
phy civil rights ordinance that we drafted for the City of Minneapolis in
1983; but the point is that it happens. It happens to women, in real life.
Womens lives are made two-dimensional and dead. We are flattened on
the page or on the screen. Our vaginal lips are painted purple for the
consumer to clue him in as to where to focus his attention such as it is.
Our rectums are highlighted so that he knows where to push. Our
mouths are used and our throats are used for deep penetration.

I am describing a process of dehumanization, a concrete means of
changing someone into some thing. We are not talking about violence
yet; we are nowhere near violence.

Dehumanization is real. It happens in real life; it happens to stigma¬
tized people. It has happened to us, to women. We say that women are
objectified. We hope that people will think that we are very smart when
we use a long word. But being turned into an object is a real event; and

126

PORNOGRAPHY HAPPENS 127

the pornographic object is a particular kind of object. It is a target. You
are turned into a target. And red or purple marks the spot where he’s
supposed to get you.

This object wants it. She is the only object with a will that says, hurt
me. A car does not say, bang me up. But she, this nonhuman thing, says
hurt me — and the more you hurt me, the more I will like it.

When we look at her, that purple painted thing, when we look at her
vagina, when we look at her rectum, when we look at her mouth, when
we look at her throat, those of us who know her and those of us who
have been her still can barely remember that she is a human being.

In pornography we literally see the will of women as men want to ex-
perience it. This will is expressed through concrete scenarios, the ways
in which womens bodies are positioned and used. We see, for instance,
that the object wants to be penetrated; and so there is a motif in
pornography of self-penetration. A woman takes some thing and she
sticks it up herself. There is pornography in which pregnant women for
some reason take hoses and stick the hoses up themselves. This is not a
human being. One cannot look at such a photograph and say, This is a
human being, she has rights, she has freedom, she has dignity, she is
someone. One cannot. That is what pornography does to women.

We talk about fetishism in sex.* Psychologists have always made that
mean, for example, a man who ejaculates to or on a shoe. The shoe can
be posed as it were on a table far from the man. He is sexually excited;
he masturbates, maybe rubs up against the shoe; he has sex “with” the
shoe. In pornography, that is what happens to a womans body: she is

*“The word fetish comes from the Portuguese feitigo , which means ‘charm’ or ‘made thing.’
A fetish is a magical, symbolic object. Its first meaning is religious: the magical object is re¬
garded with irrational, extreme, extravagant trust or reverence (to paraphrase Merriam-
Webster). In its sexual meaning, the magic of the fetish is in its power to cause and sustain
penile erection. . . .

“No sense of her own purpose can supersede, finally, the male’s sense of her purpose: to
be that thing that enables him to experience raw phallic power. In pornography, his sense of
purpose is fully realized. She is the pinup, the centerfold, the poster, the postcard, the dirty
picture, naked, half-dressed, laid out, legs spread, breasts or ass protruding. She is the thing

(continued)

128 LIFE AND DEATH

turned into a sexual fetish and the lover, the consumer, ejaculates on
her. In the pornography itself, he does ejaculate on her. It is a conven¬
tion of pornography that the sperm is on her, not in her. It marks the
spot, what he owns and how he owns it. The ejaculation on her is a way
of saying (through showing) that she is contaminated with his dirt; that
she is dirty. This is the pornographer’s discourse, not mine; the Marquis
de Sade always refers to ejaculate as pollution.

Pornographers use every attribute any woman has. They sexualize it.
They find a way to dehumanize it. This is done in concrete ways so that,
for instance, in pornography the skin of black women is taken to be a
sexual organ, female of course, despised, needing punishment. The skin
itself is the fetish, the charmed object; the skin is the place where the vi¬
olation is acted out — through verbal insult (dirty words directed at the
skin) and sexualized assault (hitting, whipping, cutting, spitting on,
bondage including rope burns, biting, masturbating on, ejaculating on).

In pornography, this fetishizing of the female body, its sexualization
and dehumanization, is always concrete and specific; it is never abstract
and conceptual. That is why all these debates on the subject of pornogra¬
phy have such a bizarre quality to them. Those of us who know that
pornography hurts women, and care, talk about womens real lives, insults
and assaults that really happen to real women in real life — the women in
the pornography and the women on whom the pornography is used.
Those who argue for pornography, especially on the ground of freedom of
speech, insist that pornography is a species of idea, thought, fantasy, situ¬
ated inside the physical brain, the mind, of the consumer no less.

In fact we are told all the time that pornography is really about ideas.

she is supposed to be: the thing that makes him erect. In literary and cinematic pornogra¬
phy, she is taught to be that thing: raped, beaten, bound, used, until she recognizes her true
nature and purpose and complies — happily, greedily, begging for more. She is used until she
knows only that she is a thing to be used. This knowledge is her authentic erotic sensibility:
her erotic destiny. . . .” Dworkin, Pornography: Men Possessing Women (New York: E. P. Dut¬
ton, 1989), pp. 123, 128.

See Andrea Dworkin, “Objects,” in Pornography: Men Possessing Women (New York: E. P.
Dutton, 1989), pp. 101-28.

PORNOGRAPHY HAPPENS 129

Well, a rectum doesn’t have an idea, and a vagina doesn’t have an idea,
and the mouths of women in pornography do not express ideas; and
when a woman has a penis thrust down to the bottom of her throat, as
in the film Deep Throat , that throat is not part of a human being who is
involved in discussing ideas. I am talking now about pornography with¬
out visible violence. I am talking about the cruelty of dehumanizing
someone who has a right to more.

In pornography, everything means something. I have talked to you
about the skin of black women. The skin of white women has a mean¬
ing in pornography. In a white-supremacist society, the skin of white
women is supposed to indicate privilege. Being white is as good as it
gets. What, then, does it mean that pornography is filled with white
women? It means that when one takes a woman who is at the zenith of
the hierarchy in racial terms and one asks her, What do you want?, she,
who supposedly has some freedom and some choices, says, I want to be
used. She says, use me, hurt me, exploit me, that is what I want. The so¬
ciety tells us that she is a standard, a standard of beauty, a standard of
womanhood and femininity. But, in fact, she is a standard of compli¬
ance. She is a standard of submission. She is a standard for oppression,
its emblem; she models oppression, she incarnates it; which is to say
that she does what she needs to do in order to stay alive, the configura¬
tion of her conformity predetermined by the men who like to ejaculate
on her white skin. She is for sale. And so what is her white skin worth?
It makes her price a little higher.

When we talk about pornography that objectifies women, we are
talking about the sexualization of insult, of humiliation; I insist that we
are also talking about the sexualization of cruelty. And this is what I
want to say to you — that there is cruelty that does not have in it overt
violence.

There is cruelty that says to you, you are worth nothing in human
terms. There is cruelty that says you exist in order for him to wipe his
penis on you, that’s who you are, that’s what you are for. I say that de¬
humanizing someone is cruel; and that it does not have to be violent in
order for it to be cruel.

130 LIFE AND DEATH

Things are done to women day in and day out that would be con¬
strued to be violent if they were done in another context, not sexualized,
to a man; women are pushed, shoved, felt up, called dirty names, have
their passage physically blocked on the street or in the office; women
simply move on, move through, unless the man escalates the violence to
what the larger patriarchal world takes to be real violence: ax murder;
sadistic stranger rape or gang rape; serial killing not of prostitutes. The
touching, the pushing, the physical blockades — these same invasions
done to men would be comprehended as attacks. Done to women, peo¬
ple seem to think its bad but its okay, its bad but its all right, its bad
but, hey, that’s the way things are; dorit make a federal case out of it. It oc¬
curs to me that we have to deal here — at the heart of the double stan¬
dard — with the impact of orgasm on our perception of what hatred is
and is not.

Men use sex to hurt us. An argument can be made that men have to
hurt us, diminish us, in order to be able to have sex with us — break
down barriers to our bodies, aggress, be invasive, push a little, shove a
little, express verbal or physical hostility or condescension. An argument
can be made that in order for men to have sexual pleasure with women,
we have to be inferior and dehumanized, which means controlled,
which means less autonomous, less free, less real.

I am struck by how hate speech, racist hate speech, becomes more
sexually explicit as it becomes more virulent — how its meaning be¬
comes more sexualized, as if the sex is required to carry the hostility. In
the history of anti-Semitism, by the time one gets to Hitler s ascendance
to power in the Weimar Republic, one is looking at anti-Semitic hate
speech that is indistinguishable from pornography* — and it is not only
actively published and distributed, it is openly displayed. What does

* Der Sturmer is the outstanding example of anti-Semitic propaganda that reached the
threshold of pornography while advocating race-hate. Founded in 1923 by Julius Streicher,
a rabid anti-Semite who joined forces with Hitler in 1921 after an independent run as a
Jew-hating rabble-rouser, Der Sturmer\wA Hitler’s strong support, from the years of struggle
(as the Nazis called them) through Hitler’s reign, the years of persecution and annihilation.
As late as 1942, Joseph Goebbels, minister of propaganda, wrote in his diary: “The Fiihrer

PORNOGRAPHY HAPPENS 131

that orgasm do? That orgasm says, I am real and the lower creature, that
thing, is not, and if the annihilation of that thing brings me pleasure,
that is the way life should be; the racist hierarchy becomes a sexually
charged ideal. There is a sense of biological inevitability that comes
from the intensity of a sexual response derived from contempt; there is
biological urgency, excitement, anger, irritation, a tension that is satis¬
fied in humiliating and belittling the inferior one, in words, in acts.t
We wonder, with a tendentious ignorance, how it is that people be¬
lieve bizarre and transparently false philosophies of biological superior¬
ity. One answer is that when racist ideologies are sexualized, turned
into concrete scenarios of dominance and submission such that they
give people sexual pleasure, the sexual feelings in themselves make the
ideologies seem biologically true and inevitable. The feelings seem to
be natural; no argument changes the feelings; and the ideologies, then,
also seem to be based in nature. People defend the sexual feelings by
defending the ideologies. They say: my feelings are natural so if I have
an orgasm from hurting you, or feel excited just by thinking about it,
you are my natural partner in these feelings and events — your natural

sent word to me that he does not desire the circulation of the Stunner to be reduced or that
it stop publishing all together. ... I, too, believe that our propaganda on the Jewish question
must continue undiminished” (cited in Telford Taylor, The Anatomy of the Nuremberg Trials
[New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1992], p. 377).

tTried at Nuremberg, Streicher was convicted of crimes against humanity and hanged on
October 16, 1946. On his way to the hanging scaffolding he shouted “Heil Hitler!” and on
it he shouted the bizarre — but in the circumstances clearly anti-Semitic — words, “Purim
festival, 1946.”

In his fascinating recent account of the Nuremberg trials, Telford Taylor, who was one of
the prosecutors for the United States, suggests that Streicher was wrongly sentenced to death
because “there was no accusation that Streicher himself had participated in any violence
against Jews, so the sole (and difficult) legal issue was whether or not incitement was a suffi¬
cient basis for his conviction” (Taylor, p. 376). This is a distinctly U.S. -based revisionism in
keeping with the increasing fanaticism of First Amendment free speech absolutism. In
Nuremberg, a relationship between sexualized hate propaganda and genocide was demon¬
strated. Many Western democracies responded by criminalizing the kind of hate speech, or
incitement to genocide, in which Streicher engaged, indeed, at which he excelled. The
United States has apparently, as a matter of law and public policy, decided to masturbate to it.

132 LIFE AND DEATH

role is whatever intensifies my sexual arousal, which I experience as
self-importance, or potency; you are nothing but you are my nothing,
which makes me someone; using you is my right because being some¬
one means that I have the power — the social power, the economic
power, the imperial sovereignty — to do to you or with you what I
want.

This phenomenon of feeling superior through a sexually reified
racism is always sadistic; its purpose is always to hurt. Sadism is a dy¬
namic in every expression of hate speech. In the use of a racial epithet
directed at a person, for instance, there is a desire to hurt — to intimi¬
date, to humiliate; there is an underlying dimension of pushing some¬
one down, subordinating them, making them less. When that hate
speech becomes fully sexualized — for instance, in the systematic reality
of the pornography industry — and a whole class of people exists in
order to provide sexual pleasure and a synonymous sense of superiority
to another group, in this case men, when that happens, we dare not tol¬
erate that being called freedom.

The problem for women is that being hurt is ordinary. It happens
every day, all the time, somewhere to someone, in every neighborhood,
on every street, in intimacy, in crowds; women are being hurt. We count
ourselves lucky when we are only being humiliated and insulted. We
count ourselves goddamn lucky when whatever happens falls short of
rape. Those who have been beaten in marriage (a euphemism for tor¬
ture) also have a sense of what luck is. We are always happy when some¬
thing less bad happens than what we had thought possible or even
likely, and we tell ourselves that if we do not settle for the less bad there
is something wrong with us. It is time for us to stop that.

When one thinks about women s ordinary lives and the lives of chil¬
dren, especially female children, it is very hard not to think that one is
looking at atrocity — if ones eyes are open. We have to accept that we
are looking at ordinary life; the hurt is not exceptional; rather, it is sys¬
tematic and it is real. Our culture accepts it, defends it, punishes us for
resisting it. The hurt, the pushing down, the sexualized cruelty are in¬
tended; they are not accidents or mistakes.

PORNOGRAPHY HAPPENS 133

Pornography plays a big part in normalizing the ways in which we are
demeaned and attacked, in how humiliating and insulting us is made to
look natural and inevitable.

I would like you especially to think about these things. Number one:
pornographers use our bodies as their language. Anything they say, they
have to use us to say. They do not have that right. They must not have
that right. Number two: constitutionally protecting pornography as if it
were speech means that there is a new way in which we are legally chat¬
tel. If the Constitution protects pornography as speech, our bodies then
belong to the pimps who need to use us to say something. They, the hu¬
mans, have a human right of speech and the dignity of constitutional
protection; we, chattel now, moveable property, are their ciphers, their
semantic symbols, the pieces they arrange in order to communicate. We
are recognized only as the discourse of a pimp. The Constitution is on
the side it has always been on: the side of the profit-making property
owner even when his property is a person defined as property because of
the collusion between law and money, law and power. The Constitution
is not ours unless it works for us, especially in providing refuge from ex¬
ploiters and momentum toward human dignity. Number three: pornog¬
raphy uses those who in the United States were left out of the Constitu¬
tion. Pornography uses white women, who were chattel. Pornography
uses African-American women, who were slaves. Pornography uses stig¬
matized men; for instance, African-American men, who were slaves, are
often sexualized by contemporary pornographers as animalistic rapists.
Pornography is not made up of old white men. It isn’t. Nobody comes
on them. They are doing this to us; or protecting those who do this to
us. They do benefit from it; and we do have to stop them.

Think about how marriage controlled women, how women were
property under the law; this did not begin to change until the early
years of the twentieth century. Think about the control the church had
over women. Think about what a resistance has been going on, and all
the trouble you have made for these men who took for granted that you
belonged to them. And think about pornography as a new institution of
social control, a democratic use of terrorism against all women, a way of

134 LIFE AND DEATH

saying publicly to every woman who walks down the street: avert your
eyes (a sign of second-class citizenship), look down, bitch, because when
you look up you’re going to see a picture of yourself being hung, you’re
going to see your legs spread open.

Pornography tells us that the will of women is to be used. And I just
want to say that the antipomography civil rights ordinance that Catharine
MacKinnon and I developed in Minneapolis says that the will of
women is not to be used; the Ordinance repudiates the premises of the
pornography; its eventual use will show in the affirmative that women
want equality.

Please note that the Ordinance was developed in Minneapolis, and
that its twin city, St. Paul, passed a strong city ordinance against hate
crimes; the courts struck down both. I want you to understand that
there are some serious pornographers in Minneapolis and some serious
racists in St. Paul and some serious citizens in both cities who want the
pornography and the racism to stop. The Ordinance that Catharine and
I drafted came out of that political culture, a grassroots, participatory
political culture that did not want to tolerate either kind of cruelty to¬
ward people.

In the fall of 1983, Catharine and I were asked by a group of neigh¬
borhood activists to testify at a local zoning committee meeting. The
group represented an area of Minneapolis that was primarily African-
American, with a small poor-white population. The city council kept
zoning pornography into their neighborhood. For seven years they had
been fighting a host of zoning laws and zoning strategies that allowed
pornography to destroy the quality of life around them. The city could
write off their neighborhood and others like it because they mosdy were
not white and they mostly were poor; the pornography was purposefully
put in such places and kept out of wealthier, whiter neighborhoods.

These activists came to us and said: we know now that the issue here
is woman hating. That is virtually a direct quote: we know now that the
issue here is woman hating. And we want to do something about it.
What can we do?

They knew what to do. They organized MacKinnon and me, that’s

PORNOGRAPHY HAPPENS 135

for sure; and they organized Minneapolis. The whole city was organized
on a grassroots level to stand against the woman hating in pornography.
That was our mandate when we drafted the antipornography civil rights
law; and constituencies of poor people, people of color, were organized
in behalf of the lives of women in those communities. A city in the
United States was organized by an ever expanding feminist wave of po¬
litical workers that brought in working-class women, current and for¬
mer prostitutes, academics, out and visible lesbians, students, and, inter
alia, a small army of sexual abuse victims to demand passage of an
amendment to the municipal civil rights law that recognized pornogra¬
phy as sex discrimination, as a violation of the civil rights of women.
This amendment, which MacKinnon and I later redrafted to be a free¬
standing statute, is commonly called “the Ordinance.”

The Ordinance got the massive, committed, excited support it did
because it is fair, because it is honest, and because it is on the side of
those who have been disenfranchised and oppressed. People mobi¬
lized — not from the top down but from the bottom up — to support the
Ordinance because it does stand directly in the way of the woman hat¬
ing in pornography: the bigotry, the hostility, the aggression that exploit
and target women. It does this by changing our perceptions of the will
of women. It destroys the authority of the pornographers on that sub¬
ject by putting a law, dignity, real power, meaningful citizenship. »n the
hands of the women they hurt. No matter how she is despised in the
pornography or by the pornographers and their clients, she is respected
by this law. Using the Ordinance, women get to say to the pimps and the
johns: we are not your colony; you do not own us as if we were territory;
my will as expressed through my use of this Ordinance is, I don’t want
it, I don’t like it, pain hurts, coercion isn’t sexy, I resist being someone
else’s speech, I reject subordination, I speak, I speak for myself now, I
am going into court to speak — to you; and you will listen.

We wanted a law that repudiates what happens to women when
pornography happens to women. In general, the legal systems misogyny
mimics the pornographers’; abstractly we can call it gender bias, but the
legal system incorporates an almost visceral hatred of women’s bodies, as

136 LIFE AND DEATH

if we exist to provoke assaults, like them, lie about them — and are not
really injured by them. I have a character in Mercy — named Andrea —
who says that you have to be clean to go before the law/ Now, no
women are clean, or clean enough. That is what we find out every time
we try to prosecute a rape; were not clean.

But certainly the women who have been turned into pornography are
not clean, and the women being sold on street corners are not clean,
and the women who are being battered and pornographized in their
homes are not clean. When a woman uses this Ordinance — if a woman
ever gets a chance to use this Ordinance — she will not need to be clean
to say, with dignity and authority, I am someone, therefore I resist.

When the Minneapolis City Council passed this Ordinance they
said, women are someone, women matter, women want to fight back,
we will give them what they want. The Minneapolis City Council had
an idea of the will of women that contradicted the pornographers’; they
got that different idea from the women who came to testify for the Or-
dinance, especially those who had grounds to use the Ordinance. The
Ordinances clarity and authority derive from the flesh-and-blood expe¬
riences of women who want to use it: women whose lives have been sav¬
aged by pornography. The Ordinance expresses their will to resist, and
the enormous strength, translated into a legal right, of their capacity to
endure, to survive.

The woman using the Ordinance will be saying, I am someone who
has endured, I have survived, I matter, I know a lot, and what I know
matters; it matters, and it is going to matter here in court, you pimp,
because I am going to use what I know against you; and you, Mr. Con-

• • and even if there’s laws by the time they have hurt you you are too dirty for the law;
the law needs clean ones but they dirty you up so the law won’t take you; there’s no crimes
they committed that are crimes in the general perception because we don’t count as to
crimes as I have discovered time and time again as I try to think if what he did that hurt me
so bad was a crime to anyone or was anything you could tell someone about so they would
care; for you; about you; so you was human.” (See Dworkin, Mercy [London: Seeker &
Warburg, 1990], pp. 303—4.)

PORNOGRAPHY HAPPENS 137

sumer, I know about you, and I am going to use what I know even
about you, even when you are my teacher, my father, my lawyer, my
doctor, my brother, my priest. I am going to use what I know.

It was not a surprise to Catharine MacKinnon and myself when, after
the Ordinance was passed, the newspapers said — ah-ha, it was a right-
wing, fundamentalist achievement. They were saying to us, to MacKin¬
non and me, you are no one, you can’t exist, it could not have been your
idea. And it was not a surprise to us when people believed it. We did not
like it, but it was not a surprise.

And when the court said to the injured women who wanted to use
the Ordinance, you are no one, the pimp is someone, he matters, we are
going to protect him, it was not a surprise. And when the court said, the
consumer is someone, none of you women are anyone no matter how
much you have been hurt but he is someone and we are here for him,
that was not a surprise. And it was not a surprise when the court said to
women: when you assert your right to equality you are expressing an
opinion, a point of view, which we should be debating in the famous
marketplace of ideas, not legislating; when you claim you were in¬
jured — that rape, that beating, that kidnapping — you have a viewpoint
about it, but in and of itself the injury does not signify. And it was not a
surprise when the court said that there was a direct relationship between
pornography as defined in the Ordinance and injuries to women, in¬
cluding rape and battery, but that relationship does not matter because
the court has a viewpoint, which happens to be the same as the pornog-
raphers’: you women are not worth anything except what we pay for
you in that famous free marketplace where we take your actual corpo¬
real reality to be an idea.

None of this was a surprise. Every little tiny bit of it was an outrage.

We wrote the Ordinance for the women who had been raped and
beaten and prostituted in and because of pornography. They wanted to
use it to say, I am someone and I am going to win. We are part of them,
we have lived lives as women, we are not exempt or separate from any of
this. We wrote the Ordinance in behalf of our own lives, too.

138 LIFE AND DEATH

I want to ask you to make certain that women will have a right and a
chance to go into a U.S. court of law and say: this is what the pornogra-
phers did to me, this is what they took from me and I am taking it back,
I am someone, I resist, I am in this court because I resist, I reject their
power, their arrogance, their cold-blooded, cold-hearted malice, and I
am going to win.

You here today have to make that possible. It has been ten years now.
It has been ten years. Count the number of women who have been hurt
in those ten years. Count how many of us have been lucky enough to be
only insulted and humiliated. Count. We cannot wait another ten years;
we need you, we need you now — please, organize.

PROSTITUTION
AND MALE SUPREMACY

I’m very honored to be here with my friends and my peers, my sisters
in this movement.

I also feel an awful lot of conflict about being here, because it is very
hard to think about talking about prostitution in an academic setting.

The assumptions of academia can barely begin to imagine the reality
of life for women in prostitution. Academic life is premised on the no¬
tion that there is a tomorrow and a next day and a next day; or that
someone can come inside from the cold for time to study; or that there
is some kind of discourse of ideas and a year of freedom in which you
can have disagreements that will not cost you your life. These are
premises that those who are students here or who teach here act on
every day. They are antithetical to the lives of women who are in prosti¬
tution or who have been in prostitution.

If you have been in prostitution, you do not have tomorrow in your
mind, because tomorrow is a very long time away. You cannot assume
that you will live from minute to minute. You cannot and you do not. If
you do, then you are stupid, and to be stupid in the world of prostitu¬
tion is to be hurt, is to be dead. No woman who is prostituted can af¬
ford to be that stupid, such that she would actually believe that tomor¬
row will come.

139

140 LIFE AND DEATH

I cannot reconcile these different premises. I can only say that the
premises of the prostituted woman are my premises. They are the ones
that I act from. They are the ones that my work has been based on all of
these years. I cannot accept — because I cannot believe — the premises of
the feminism that comes out of the academy: the feminism that says we
will hear all these sides year after year, and then, someday, in the future,
by some process that we have not yet found, we will decide what is right
and what is true. That does not make sense to me. I understand that to
many of you it does make sense. I am talking across the biggest cultural
divide in my own life. I have been trying to talk across it for twenty
years with what I would consider marginal success.

I want to bring us back to basics. Prostitution: what is it? It is the use
of a woman’s body for sex by a man, he pays money, he does what he
wants. The minute you move away from what it really is, you move
away from prostitution into the world of ideas. You will feel better; you
will have a better time; it is more fun; there is plenty to discuss, but you
will be discussing ideas, not prostitution. Prostitution is not an idea. It
is the mouth, the vagina, the rectum, penetrated usually by a penis,
sometimes hands, sometimes objects, by one man and then another and
then another and then another and then another. That’s what it is.

I ask you to think about your own bodies — if you can do so outside
the world that the pornographers have created in your minds, the flat,
dead, floating mouths and vaginas and anuses of women. I ask you to
think concretely about your own bodies used that way. How sexy is it? Is
it fun? The people who defend prostitution and pornography want you
to feel a kinky little thrill every time you think of something being stuck
into a woman. I want you to feel the delicate tissues in her body that are
being misused. I want you to feel what it feels like when it happens over
and over and over and over and over and over and over again: because
that is what prostitution is. The repetition will kill you, even if the man
doesn’t.

Which is why — from the perspective of a woman in prostitution or a
woman who has been in prostitution — the distinctions other people
make between whether the event took place in the Plaza Hotel or some-

PROSTITUTION AND MALE SUPREMACY 1 4 1

where more inelegant are not the distinctions that matter. These are ir¬
reconcilable perceptions, with irreconcilable premises. Of course the
circumstances must matter, you say. No, they do not, because we are
talking about the use of the mouth, the vagina, and the rectum. The cir¬
cumstances don’t mitigate or modify what prostitution is.

And so, many of us are saying that prostitution is intrinsically abu¬
sive. Let me be clear. I am talking to you about prostitution per se, with¬
out more violence, without extra violence, without a woman being hit,
without a woman being pushed. Prostitution in and of itself is an abuse
of a womans body. Those of us who say this are accused of being sim-
pleminded. But prostitution is very simple. And if you are not simple-
minded, you will never understand it. The more complex you manage
to be, the further away from the reality you will be — the safer you will
be, the happier you will be, the more fun you will have discussing the
issue of prostitution. In prostitution, no woman stays whole. It is im¬
possible to use a human body in the way womens bodies are used in
prostitution and to have a whole human being at the end of it, or in the
middle of it, or close to the beginning of it. And no woman gets whole
again later, after. Women who have been abused in prostitution have
some choices to make. You have seen very brave women here make
some very important choices: to use what they know; to try to commu¬
nicate to you what they know. But nobody gets whole, because too
much is taken away when the invasion is inside you, when the brutality
is inside your skin. We try so hard to communicate, all of us to each
other, the pain. We plead, we make analogies. The only analogy I can
think of concerning prostitution is that it is more like gang rape than it
is like anything else.

Oh, you say, gang rape is completely different. An innocent woman
is walking down the street and she is taken by surprise. Every woman is
that same innocent woman. Every woman is taken by surprise. In a
prostitutes life, she is taken by surprise over and over again. The gang
rape is punctuated by a money exchange. Thats all. That’s the only dif¬
ference. But money has a magical quality, doesn’t it? You give a woman
money and whatever it is that you did to her she wanted, she deserved.

142 LI FE AND DEATH

Now, we understand about male labor. We understand that men do
things they do not like to do in order to earn a wage. When men do
alienating labor in a factory we do not say that the money transforms
the experience for them such that they loved it, had a good time, and in
fact, aspired to nothing else. We look at the boredom, the dead-ended-
ness; we say, surely the quality of a mans life should be better than that.

The magical function of money is gendered; that is to say, women are
not supposed to have money, because when women have money, pre¬
sumably women can make choices, and one of the choices that women
can make is not to be with men. And if women make the choice not to
be with men, men will then be deprived of the sex that men feel they
have a right to. And if it is required that a whole class of people be
treated with cruelty and indignity and humiliation, put into a condition
of servitude, so that men can have the sex that they think they have a
right to, then that is what will happen. That is the essence and the
meaning of male dominance. Male dominance is a political system.

It is always extraordinary, when looking at this money exchange, to
understand that in most peoples minds the money is worth more than
the woman is. The $10, the $30, the $50 is worth much more than her
whole life. The money is real, more real than she is. With the money he
can buy a human life and erase its importance from every aspect of civil
and social consciousness and conscience and society, from the protec¬
tions of law, from any right of citizenship, from any concept of human
dignity and human sovereignty. For fifty fucking dollars any man can
do that. If you were going to think of a way to punish women for being
women, poverty would be enough. Poverty is hard. It hurts. The bitches
would be sorry they’re women. It’s hard to be hungry. It’s hard not to
have a nice place to live in. You feel real desperate. Poverty is very pun¬
ishing. But poverty isn’t enough, because poverty alone does not provide
a pool of women for men to fuck on demand. Poverty is insufficient to
create that pool of women, no matter how hungry women get. So, in
different cultures, societies are organized differently to get the same re¬
sult: not only are women poor, but the only thing of value a woman has
is her so-called sexuality, which, along with her body, has been turned

PROSTITUTION AND MALE SUPREMACY 143

into a sellable commodity. Her so-called sexuality becomes the only
thing that matters; her body becomes the only thing that anyone wants
to buy. An assumption then can be made: if she is poor and needs
money, she will be selling sex. The assumption may be wrong. The as¬
sumption does not create the pool of women who are prostituted. It
takes more than that. In our society, for instance, in the population of
women who are prostituted now, we have women who are poor, who
have come from poor families; they are also victims of child sexual
abuse, especially incest; and they have become homeless.

Incest is boot camp. Incest is where you send the girl to learn how to
do it. So you don’t, obviously, have to send her anywhere, she’s already
there and she’s got nowhere else to go. She’s trained. And the training is
specific and it is important: not to have any real boundaries to her own
body; to know that she’s valued only for sex; to learn about men what
the offender, the sex offender, is teaching her. But even that is not
enough, because then she runs away and she is out on the streets and
homeless. For most women, some version of all these kinds of destitu¬
tion needs to occur.

I have thought a lot in the last couple of years about the meaning of
homelessness for women. I think that it is, in a literal sense, a precondi¬
tion, along with incest and poverty in the United States, to create a pop¬
ulation of women who can be prostituted. But it has a wider meaning,
too. Think about where any woman really has a home. No child is safe
in a society in which one out of three girls is going to be sexually abused
before she is eighteen.1 No wife is safe in a society in which recent fig¬
ures appear to say that one out of two married women has been or is
being beaten.2 We are the homemakers; we make these homes but we
have no right to them. I think that we have been wrong to say that pros¬
titution is a metaphor for what happens to all women. I think that
homelessness really is that metaphor. I think that women are dispos¬
sessed of a place to live that is safe, that belongs to the woman herself, a
place in which she has not just sovereignty over her own body but sov¬
ereignty over her actual social life, whether it is life in a family or among
friends. In prostitution, a woman remains homeless.

144 LIFE AND DEATH

But there is something very specific about the condition of prostitu¬
tion that I would like to try to talk about with you.

I want to emphasize that in these conversations, these discussions
about prostitution, we are all looking for language. We are all trying to
find ways to say what we know and also to find out what we don’t know.
There is a middle-class presumption that one knows everything worth
knowing. It is the presumption of most prostituted women that one
knows nothing worth knowing. In fact, neither premise is true. What
matters here is to try to learn what the prostituted woman knows, be¬
cause it is of immense value. It is true and it has been hidden. It has
been hidden for a political reason: to know it is to come closer to know¬
ing how to undo the system of male dominance that is sitting on top of
all of us.

I think that prostitutes experience a specific inferiority. Women in
general are considered to be dirty. Most of us experience this as a
metaphor, and, yes, when things get very bad, when terrible things hap¬
pen, when a woman is raped, when a woman is battered, yes, then you
recognize that underneath your middle-class life there are assumptions
that because you are a woman you are dirty. But a prostitute lives the lit¬
eral reality of being the dirty woman. There is no metaphor. She is the
woman covered in dirt, which is to say that every man who has ever
been on top of her has left a piece of himself behind; and she is also the
woman who has a purely sexual function under male dominance so that
to the extent people believe that sex is dirty, people believe that prosti¬
tuted women are dirt.

The prostituted woman is, however, not static in this dirtiness. Shes
contagious. She’s contagious because man after man after man comes on
her and then he goes away. For instance, in discussions of AIDS, the
prostituted woman is seen as the source of the infection. That is a spe¬
cific example. In general, the prostituted woman is seen as the genera¬
tive source of everything that is bad and wrong and rotten with sex,
with the man, with women. She is seen as someone who is deserving of
punishment, not just because of what she “does” — and I put does in
quotes, since mostly it is done to her — but because of what she is.

PROSTITUTION AND MALE SUPREMACY 145

She is, of course, the ultimate anonymous woman. Men love it.
While she is on her twenty-fourth false name — dolly, baby, cutie, cherry
tart, whatever all the pornographers are cooking up this week as a mar¬
keting device — her namelessness says to the man, she’s nobody real, I
don’t have to deal with her, she doesn’t have a last name at all, I don’t
have to remember who she is, she’s not somebody specific to me, she’s a
generic embodiment of woman. She is perceived as, treated as — and I
want you to remember this, this is real — vaginal slime. She is dirty; a lot
of men have been there. A lot of semen, a lot of vaginal lubricant. This
is visceral, this is real, this is what happens. Her anus is often torn from
the anal intercourse, it bleeds. Her mouth is a receptacle for semen, that
is how she is perceived and treated. All women are considered dirty be¬
cause of menstrual blood but she bleeds other times, other places. She
bleeds because she’s been hurt, she bleeds and she’s got bruises on her.

When men use women in prostitution, they are expressing a pure ha¬
tred for the female body. It is as pure as anything on this earth ever is or
ever has been. It is a contempt so deep, so deep, that a whole human life
is reduced to a few sexual orifices, and he can do anything he wants.
Other women at this conference have told you that. I want you to un¬
derstand, believe them. It’s true. He can do anything he wants. She has
nowhere to go. There is no cop to complain to; the cop may well be the
guy who is doing it. The lawyer that she goes to will want payment in
kind. When she needs medical help, it turns out he’s just another john.
Do you understand? She is literally nothing. Now, many of us have expe¬
riences in which we feel like nothing, or we know that someone consid¬
ers us to be nothing or less than nothing, worthless, but for a woman in
prostitution, this is the experience of life every day, day in and day out.

He, meanwhile, the champion here, the hero, the man, he’s busy
bonding with other men through the use of her body. One of the rea¬
sons he is there is because some man has been there before him and
some man will be there after him. This is not theory. When you live it,
you see that it is true. Men use women’s bodies in prostitution and in
gang rape to communicate with each other, to express what they have in
common. And what they have in common is that they are not her. So

146 LIFE AND DEATH

she becomes the vehicle of his masculinity and his homoeroticism, and
he uses the words to tell her that. He shares the sexuality of the words,
as well as the acts, directed at her, with other men. All of those dirty
words are just the words that he uses to tell her what she is. (And from
the point of view of any woman who has been prostituted — if she were
to express that point of view, which it is likely she will not — the fight
that male artists wage for the right to use dirty words is one of the sicker
and meaner jokes on the face of this earth, because there is no law, no
rule, no etiquette, no courtesy that stops any man from using every sin¬
gle one of those words on any prostituted woman; and the words have
the sting that they are supposed to have because in fact they are describ¬
ing her.) She’s expendable. Funny, she has no name. She is a mouth, a
vagina, and an anus — who needs her in particular when there are so
many others? When she dies, who misses her? Who mourns her? She’s
missing — does anybody go look for her? I mean, who is she? She is no
one. Not metaphorically no one. Literally, no one.

Now, in the history of genocide, for instance, the Nazis referred to
the Jews as lice and, they said, we are going to exterminate them.3 In the
history of the slaughter of the indigenous people of the Americas, those
who made policy said, they’re lice, kill them.4 Catharine MacKinnon
talked earlier about gender cleansing: murdering prostitutes. She is
right. Prostituted women are women who are there, available for the gy-
nocidal kill. And prostituted women are being killed every single day,
and we don’t think we’re facing anything resembling an emergency.
Why should we? They’re no one. When a man kills a prostitute, he feels
righteous. It is a righteous kill. He has just gotten rid of a piece of dirt,
and the society tells him he is right.

There is also a specific kind of dehumanization experienced by
women who are prostituted. Yes, all women experience being objects,
being treated like objects. But prostituted women are treated like a cer¬
tain kind of object, which is to say, a target. A target isn’t any old object.
You might take pretty good care of some objects that you have around
the house. But a target you go after. You put the dart in the hole. That’s
what the prostitute is for. What that should tell you is how much ag-

PROSTITUTION AND MALE SUPREMACY 1 47

gression goes into what a man does when he seeks out, finds, and uses a
prostituted woman.

One of the conflicts that I feel about talking here, being here, is that
I am afraid that anything I say that is even slightly abstract will immedi¬
ately move everyone’s mind off of the fundamental issue. And the fun¬
damental issue is what is done to women who are in prostitution, what
exactly prostitution is. But I have to risk that because I want to say to
you that you cant think about prostitution unless you are willing to
think about the man who needs to fuck the prostitute. Who is he? What
is he doing? What does he want? What does he need?

He is everyone. I want you to take one hour, on Monday. I want you
to walk through your school, and I want you to look at every man. I
want you to take his clothes oflf with your eyes. I want you to see him
with a stiff prick. I want you in your mind to put him on top of a
woman with money on the table next to them. Everyone. The dean of
this law school, the professors, the male students, everyone. If you are
going to the emergency room, I want you to do it. If you have a heart
attack, I want you to do it with the intern who is taking care of you. Be¬
cause this is the world that prostituted women live in. It is a world in
which no matter what happens to you, there is another man who wants
a piece of you. And if you need something from him, you have to give
him that piece.

Men who use prostitutes think they are real big and real brave.
They’re very proud of themselves — they brag a lot. They write novels,
they write songs, they write laws — productive folk — and they have a
sense that they are very adventurous and heroic, and why do they think
that? Because they are predators who go out and hump women — they
rub up against a woman who’s dirty and they live to tell about it. God¬
damn it. They live to tell about it. Unfortunately. Virtually all the time,
no matter what they have done, no matter what harm they have done to
her — they live to tell about it, sing about it, write about it, make televi¬
sion shows about it, make movies about it. I would like to say to you
that these men are cowards, that these men are brutes, that these men
are fools, that these men are able to do what they do because they have

148 LIFE AND DEATH

the power of men as a class behind them, which they get because men
use force against women. If you want a definition of what a coward is,
it’s needing to push a whole class of people down so that you can walk
on top of them. Societies are organized so that men have the power they
need, to use women the way that they want to. Societies can be orga¬
nized in different ways and still create a population of women who are
prostituted. For instance, in the United States the women are poor,
mostly incest victims, homeless. In parts of Asia, they are sold into slav¬
ery at the age of six months because they are females. It does not have to
be done the same way in every place to be the same thing.

Male dominance means that the society creates a pool of prostitutes
by any means necessary so that men have what men need to stay on top,
to feel big, literally, metaphorically, in every way; and yet men are our
standard for being human. We say we want to be human. We say that
we want them to treat us like human beings. In a male-dominant soci¬
ety, men are the human beings. I want to point out to you that we use
the word human metaphorically. We are not talking about how men act.
We are talking about an idea, a dream, a vision that we have of what a
human being is. We are saying that we do not want them stepping on
top of us; we are also saying implicitly that they are not a good enough
standard for what being human is because look at what they are doing
to us. We cannot want to be like them because being like them means
using people the way that they use people — for the sake of establishing
ones importance or ones identity. I am saying that in part men are
mythological figures to us when we talk about them as human beings.
We are not talking about how men really behave. We are talking about
the mythology of men as arbiters of civilization. This political move¬
ment involves understanding that the human qualities that we want in
life with each other are not qualities that characterize the way men really
behave.

What prostitution does in a society of male dominance is that it es¬
tablishes a social bottom beneath which there is no bottom. It is the
bottom. Prostituted women are all on the bottom. And all men are
above it. They may not be above it much but even men who are prosti-

PROSTITUTION AND MALE SUPREMACY 149

tuted are above the bottom that is set by prostituted women and girls.
Every man in this society benefits from the fact that women are prosti¬
tuted whether or not every man uses a woman in prostitution. This
should not have to be said but it has to be said: prostitution comes from
male dominance, not from female nature. It is a political reality that ex¬
ists because one group of people has and maintains power over another
group of people. I underline that because I want to say to you that male
domination is cruel. I want to say to you that male domination must be
destroyed. Male domination needs to be ended, not simply reformed,
not made a little nicer, and not made a little nicer for some women. We
need to look at the role of men — really look at it, study it, understand
it — in keeping women poor, in keeping women homeless, in keeping
girls raped, which is to say, in creating prostitutes, a population of
women who will be used in prostitution. We need to look at the role of
men in romanticizing prostitution, in making its cost to women cultur¬
ally invisible, in using the power of this society, the economic power, the
cultural power, the social power, to create silence, to create silence
among those who have been hurt, the silence of the women who have
been used.

We need to look at the role of men in creating a hatred of women, in
creating prejudice against women, in using the culture to support, pro¬
mote, advocate, celebrate aggression against women. We need to look at
the role of men in creating a political idea of freedom that only they can
actually have. What is freedom? Two thousand years of discourse and
somehow it manages to leave us out. It is an amazingly self-serving
monologue that they have had going here. We need to look at the role
of men in creating political systems that subordinate women; and that
means that we have to look at the role of men in creating prostitution,
in protecting prostitution — how law enforcement does it, how journal¬
ism does it, how lawyers do it, how artists do it. We need to know the
ways in which all those men use prostitutes and in doing so destroy the
human dignity of the women.

The cure to this problem is political. That means taking power away
from men. This is real stuff; it is serious stuff They have too much of it.

150 LIFE AND DEATH

They do not use it right. They are bullies. They do not have a right to
what they have; and that means it has to be taken away from them. We
have to take the power that they have to use us away from them. We
have to take the power that they have to hurt us away from them. We
have to take their money away from them. They have too much of it.
Any man who has enough money to spend degrading a woman’s life in
prostitution has too much money. He does not need what he’s got in his
pocket. But there is a woman who does.

We need to take away their social dominance — over us. We live in a
tyranny of liars and hypocrites and sadists.

Now, it will cost you to fight them. They have to be taken off of
women, do you understand me? They need to be lifted up and off. What
is intractable about prostitution is male dominance. And it is male dom¬
inance that has to be ended so that women will not be prostituted.

You , you — you have to weaken and destroy every institution that is
part of how men rule over women. And don’t ask if you should. The
question is how, not if. How? Do one thing, rather than spend your
lives debating if you should do this or if you should do that and do they
really deserve it and is it really fair? Fair? Is it really fair? Darlings, we
could get the machine guns out tonight. Fair? We break our own hearts
with these questions. Is it fair? Don’t respect their laws. No. Don’t re¬
spect their laws. Women need to be making laws. I hope that Catharine
MacKinnon and I have set an example. We have tried to. There is no
reason for any woman, any woman in the world, to be basically per¬
forming fellatio on the current legal system. But mostly that is what one
is in law school to learn how to do.

What I hope you will take away from here is this: that any vestige of
sex hierarchy, any, will mean that some women somewhere are being
prostituted. If you look around you and you see male supremacy, you
know that somewhere where you cannot see, a woman is being prosti¬
tuted, because every hierarchy needs a bottom and prostitution is the
bottom of male dominance. So when you accommodate, when you
compromise, when you turn a blind eye, you are collaborating. Yes, I

PROSTITUTION AND MALE SUPREMACY 151

know that your life is also at stake but yes you are collaborating, both
things are true, in the destruction of another woman s life.

I am asking you to make yourselves enemies of male dominance, be¬
cause it has to be destroyed for the crime of prostitution to end — the
crime against the woman, the human rights crime of prostitution: and
everything else is beside the point, a lie, an excuse, an apology, a justifi¬
cation, and all the abstract words are lies, justice, liberty, equality, they
are lies. As long as women are being prostituted they are lies. You can
tell the lie and in this institution you will be taught how to tell the lie;
or you can use your lives to dismantle the system that creates and then
protects this abuse. You, a well-trained person, can stand with the
abuser or with the rebel, the resister, the revolutionary. You can stand
with the sister he is doing it to; and if you are very brave you can try to
stand between them so that he has to get through you to get to her.
That, by the way, is the meaning of the often misused word choice .
These are choices. I am asking you to make a choice.

NOTES

1. Diana E. H. Russell, Sexual Exploitation: Rape , Child Sexual Abuse, and Work¬
place Harassment (Beverly Hills, CA: Sage Publications, 1984), pp. 193—94.

2. Nancy Gibbs, “Til Death Do Us Part,” Time, January 18, 1993, pp. 38, 41.

3. For example, Heinrich Himmler observed that “anti-Semitism is exactly the
same as delousing.” See Robert Jay Lifton, The Nazi Doctors: Medical Killing
and the Psycho logy of Genocide (New York: Basic Books, Inc., Publishers, 1986),
p. 477, citing Hans Buchheim, “Command and Compliance,” in Anatomy of
the SS State > Krausnick et al., eds. (New York: Walker & Company, 1968), p.
338.

4. David E. Stannard, American Holocaust: Columbus and the Conquest of the New
World (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), p. 131.

FREEDOM NOW

Ending Violence Against Women

The first thing I want to do is to thank you for being there for so
many women who have nowhere to go, no one to help, who live
in communities in which people deny what is happening in the apart¬
ment right next to them, in the house down the street. I thank you for
being there for women who need help.

When we talk about battery we are not talking about something that
only happens to a few women; were talking about something that hap¬
pens to as many as half the married women in the United States. It is
staggering to understand that the place where a woman is most at jeop¬
ardy is in fact her own home. Four thousand women a year in the United
States are killed in their own homes, not by strangers who break in, but
by men who presumably love them. It is urgent to understand what is
‘normal” about battery, why it doesn’t seem — to the husband, often to
the wife, to the neighbors, to the families — that something unbelievably
disastrous and terrible is happening when a woman is being beaten.

When I say that battery is “normal,” I mean that battery expresses a
lot of attitudes and opinions that people, including women, have about
women. It also expresses a power relationship between men and women
that is taken to be not only commonplace but correct — the right rela¬
tionship, in which it’s appropriate that men have power and certain

152

FREEDOM NOW 153

kinds of control over women’s lives — especially women they are married
to, women they live with, women with whom they are “intimate.”

I come from a time when there was no recognition at all that a
woman who was being beaten, tortured — on the verge of being mur¬
dered — needed help. For those of you who remember, remember now;
for those of you who never knew, try to imagine: it was her fault; she de¬
served it; she brought it on herself. If she weren’t bad, it wouldn’t be
happening. And as far as she knew, it wasn’t happening to anybody else
in the world; she was the only one, the only one being treated this way
by her husband — because we didn’t talk about battery; battery did not
have a social existence; it was a private, secret nightmare for women who
had nowhere to turn. And when women asked for help, they were told,
“It’s your fault. Look to yourself. What are you doing wrong? Do it
right. Well, of course he got angry; you didn’t do the laundry right — he
works hard all day. Well, he’s very upset; there’s a recession on. Well, of
course when he comes home at night he doesn’t want his peas on that
side of the plate; of course not — fool. And his response may or may not
have been a little bit excessive; but hey, he’s under a lot of pressure.” I
want to remind you what the experience of battery is, because we be¬
come callous to it. Being battered is being hit. It is being hit a lot. It is
being hit so that you hurt. It is being hit so that sometimes the bruises
show, and sometimes they don’t; and sometimes it is being hit by.some-
one who is very skilled and really knows how to hit. He has learned
through hitting other women; he has learned by practicing on the
woman he’s hitting now. Women are battered by policemen who are
trained in how the human body responds to pain; by doctors who know
where the kidney is and where the spleen is.

But being battered is also being a captive. When you look at what
happens to women in battery, the only other place where you can see
the same kind of systematic physical and psychological injuries is in
prisons in which people are tortured. Almost everything that we now
know about how to help people who have been tortured in prisons
under situations of political repression comes from what we have
learned by studying what is done to battered women — because in the

154 I I F E AND DEATH

home the situation is virtually the same. Now, why should it be that in
a home, a woman is a prisoner, a captive, in a nightmare she can t get
out of?

There are a lot of reasons: some of them are economic, some of them
are social, some of them have to do with the inability of the neighbors to
hear the scream. A lot of reasons have to do with fear of the man who’s
hurting the woman. Hey, you don’t want him coming after you. Better
you should not know what is happening to her. And before the existence
of the battered-women’s movement, when she would turn to other peo¬
ple and ask for help, not only was it her fault, but most of the time they
would deny that it was even happening. Surely she was misunderstand¬
ing, misinterpreting, misrepresenting, misexpressing, making a terrible
mistake. And the terrible mistake was not that she was with the man who
was hurting her; it was that she was complaining about it.

When you are battered, over time, you are physically tortured. I am
not speaking in hyperbole. I don’t mean that you’re hurt very, very
badly. I don’t mean that it’s a very bad thing that you’re being hurt, al¬
though it is a very bad thing. I mean that batterers purposefully, seri¬
ously torture the women that they’re hurting. They do it physically.
Sometimes they use degrees of force so unconscionable as to be impos¬
sible to believe: for instance, hitting a woman with a big wooden beam;
using knives on a woman; using a baseball bat on a woman. Sometimes
the woman is tied up and tortured and it is called sex when she is hurt.
She is often sleep deprived, purposefully, the way she would be if she
were in a prison. He takes her life and he messes with it in order to frac¬
ture it, to break it into little pieces so that she has no life left. The effects
of sleep deprivation on prisoners who are being tortured are not any dif¬
ferent than the effects of sleep deprivation on battered women.

What does it mean to have a life as a sovereign human being when
your body belongs to someone else, such that you cannot get a nights
sleep? Your perceptions become distorted. You ask for help and you’re
told that your perceptions are distorted. You say, “Right, I haven’t
slept.’’ Some of it is purposeful: a woman is let to sleep for twenty min¬
utes, then twenty minutes, then twenty minutes, then twenty min-

FREEDOM NOW 155

utes — each piece of sleep interrupted by some kind of an assault, some¬
times for weeks, for months.

The power of the batterer is in his fists, it’s in his money, it’s in his so¬
cial power, but it is also in his apparent irrationality. It is in the fact that
the woman who is being hurt cannot anticipate what he will do next to
her; what he will do next to someone else — to a child, to a dog, to a cat,
to whatever she loves, whomever she loves. What he will do next she
doesn’t know. If she stands up to him, she will be hurt. If she submits to
him, she will still be hurt.

When you live in a world that’s governed by laws you don’t under¬
stand and can’t understand, you can be destroyed mentally by that
world. No human being can live being subjected to the irrational hatred
of another person in intimacy, in their private life. It’s hard enough if
you must deal with prejudice in the social world, on the street; it’s hard
enough if you’re going to be beaten up because your skin is the wrong
color, because you have the wrong-sexed partner by your side. But when
in your intimate life you are going to be hurt and you don’t know why,
and you don’t know when, and you don’t know how — you only know if
not today then Tomorrow — it will drive you mad. And then they will
say, “Ah-ha, you see, she was mad.”

The fear that the battered woman experiences is beyond the power of
any language I have to express to you. It is a fear of a recrimination that
is total — the man controls the total universe of the woman. It has to do
with every little detail of her life. It is a punishment for anything at any
time, and therefore, one lives in an ocean of fear; one swims and swims
and swims and thinks, So what if I keep swimming? When will this stop?
God, help me, let me, die. That is what happens to battered women who
do not get away. They pray to die — because it seems peaceful and it
seems better. And it probably is better.

There is an extraordinary humiliation in being battered, in not being
able to stand up as a simple human being with dignity: one believes that
one has done something wrong or it would not be happening. A woman
is told all her life that she is responsible for the behaviors of the men
around her, so when this is happening to her, she believes — no matter

156 LIFE AND DEATH

what her ideology, no matter how militantly feminist or deeply religious
she is — “Its my fault. I did it.”

There’s also something deeper: a shame — a kind of shame that I be¬
lieve only people in captivity can feel — when you are forced to do
things that are incredibly degrading to you; to follow the orders of
somebody else, for instance, just because he gives them, just because
you are afraid. You experience within yourself a lack of self-respect so
bottomless that there is no self to respect.

This all happens in a situation of intimacy. This happens not because
the Nazis have marched into town and taken over your home. It doesn’t
happen because there’s a plundering horde coming from somewhere
else. It happens with someone, presumably, that you’re with because you
care about him; you love; maybe you decided to have children together;
maybe you had a feeling of friendship for him; but you’re with him for
reasons of intimacy — he matters to you. And partly you’re there because
you think that he cares about you.

We have a skewed standard for loving and caring for women. We
have a double standard: a man can show how much he cares by being vi¬
olent. See, he’s jealous; he cares. A woman shows how much she cares by
how much she’s willing to be hurt, by how much she will take, how
much she will endure, how suicidal she’s prepared to be.

In all these years I have thought and talked to other women about
battery, having experienced it, there is one form of blame I think we de¬
serve: Christians call it the sin of pride. The pride is that we believe that
for the sake of love we can endure anything. And we make a stand — be¬
cause of pride — to endure anything. We cannot. We must not. We
should not. Our shoulders do not have to carry that weight. We do not
bear the burden of all the love in the world, such that we are annihi¬
lated, for the sake of somebody else’s life, or for the more selfish sake of
proving that we’re really good women; really good, honest, loving
mates; that really “we didn’t deserve it — look, we re still here. Yes, he did
something terrible; but look, here we are, prepared still to love him.”

There is an ideology to romance that says the use of force is an expres¬
sion of strong feeling for a woman: when a man uses various gradations of

FREEDOM NOW 157

force against her, what he’s doing is expressing his deep desire for her.
Most of us have been taught that, in one form or another. Some of us
have learned it through our religions; some of us have learned it through
popular culture; some of us have seen Gone With the Wind four thousand
times. It is everywhere. We measure his desire by what he’s willing to do to
her, and we celebrate the force that he’s willing to show; then, when she
shows up as a pile of bleeding bones in a hospital emergency room, we say,
“Oh, that wasn’t so romantic after all.” No, it wasn’t. And it wasn’t from
the beginning. That’s what we have to understand: it wasn’t romantic
from the very start, when it just looked like “he really wants her a lot.”

There is in romance, in sexual relations, an implicit, purposeful, sys¬
tematic sense of ownership — of how men own women. Sexuality can be
an expression of that; it can be an expression of physical ownership of
women. In the experience of being battered, the husband is doing the
same things a torturer would do, the same things an assassin would
do — but he’s the husband. We’re not allowed to say bad things about
him. We’re not even allowed to say bad things about him when he is ac¬
tively brutalizing a woman. Aiid when he does it in front of our eyes, we
turn around, most of us, and walk away — and then, it’s not that we say
nothing: we say bad things — but we say them about her.

It is easy to say that men beat women in order to express domination,
to exercise control; these are easy sentences to say. But I need to ask you
to think about what they really mean. We’re talking about people who
live together; we’re talking about twenty-four hours a day; we’re talking
about the woman’s body; we’re talking about control of every function
of her body; we’re talking about how she dresses; we’re talking about
how she walks; we’re talking about whether she uses the toothpaste from
the middle or the bottom, about how much toilet paper she uses. In in¬
timate relations, we are talking about every aspect of behavior that an
adult should decide for herself.

Women who are battered are under a curfew. The curfew is imposed
by a policeman who is the husband. Adult human beings decide who
their friends are; they decide who they want to talk to; they decide which
books they want to read and which movies they want to go see. If they

158 LI FE AND DEATH

want to go see a movie and their partner doesn’t and they decide to go
alone, that’s what they do. That’s what being an adult is in the most ordi¬
nary sense, but most women don’t exercise those simplest expressions of
freedom. It’s not just because we’re afraid to go out after dark because of
the men we are not married to — although we have reason enough for that.

When political people talk about male supremacy, we talk about it in
large ways: patterns of violence against women; female poverty and its
meaning in a woman’s life. But when we talk about battery, we have to
remember that we are talking about every aspect of a human life, every
single day, all the time. The problem of human freedom has never been
considered from the point of view of a woman’s life. Thomas Jefferson
did not consider this problem of freedom; our Constitution does not
address it. When the Constitution was written, women were chattel;
most African-American women and men were slaves. There isn’t any
system of government anywhere in the world predicated on the notion
that if a woman isn’t free, no one is free. There isn’t any political science
anywhere in the world that says, in a way that matters, the primary con¬
cern about human freedom has to be about the lives of women and chil¬
dren because they’re the ones who haven’t had freedom.

When we talk about what men do to women, many of us are treated,
of course, as if we are making it up. We’re not making it up. We’re care¬
ful not to exaggerate it. If we know that one out of two women is being
beaten but we can only prove that in some cities in the country one out
of twenty-five women is being beaten, that’s what we say: one out of
twenty-five.* Yet whatever it is we say, legal and social authorities come
back and say, “That doesn’t happen.” When the women’s movement
first started talking about battered women, we were told, “That doesn’t
happen” — by law enforcement people, by the FBI, by sociologists who
now make all their money getting grants to study battery — yes, they
discovered that it happens. And now the U.S. Justice Department re-

*1 am chinking of Del Martin s pioneering 1976 book Battered Women (San Francisco New
Glide Publishers), in which she gives a random sample of battery statistics from different
U.S. cities.

FREEDOM NOW 159

ports that most violent acts against women are committed by someone
known to them.* This violence includes battery, aggravated assault, sex¬
ual assault, and homicide. We were right.

And we were right for a very simple reason: we listened to the people
to whom it happened; we listened to women; we believed what women
said. We know that when you see a situation of terror and you hear
about it over and over again, its not likely that each woman is making it
up. It is likely that there are systematic characteristics of this terror that
we can look at and understand. When we said women were being
raped, we were told that wasn’t true — every now and then there might
be a psychotic killer — but hey, not very often. And in fact, approxi¬
mately one out of three women in the United States is in some way sex¬
ually abused before she becomes an adult. So we have the experiences of
women, and we take them seriously.

We also have history — which is actually not a matter of opinion.
Women were legally property; we were legally chattel; white women
were legally chattel in the United States. White women, the racially su¬
perior women in a racist country, were at the top of the pile, and be¬
longed to the men who owned them. They didn’t own the clothes on
their back; guardianship of their children passed to another male if the
husband died; intercourse was a right of marriage.

The woman, if she was married, wasn’t just owned as a piece of prop¬
erty. Slavery is a crucial phenomenon in this country, and the experi¬
ences of African-American women in relation to marriage were different
(and heartbreaking), because the slave owner owned both man and
woman. But if we take what we consider the “normative” experience —
the white experience — then what we see is that empirically and paradig-
matically women as a class, including slave women, were owned not just
outside but inside. The right of sexual access to us is part of the way we
were owned. The children that we had were owned as property by the
man who owned us.

*Ronet Bachman, U.S. Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics, Violence Against
Women: A National Crime Victimization Survey Report (Washington, D.C.: January 1994).

160 LIFE AND DEATH

Now, the reason that this remains important — even though it has
changed somewhat — is that laws about marital rape have not changed
enough. When a woman was owned in marriage, intercourse was a male
right because the husband owned the woman, she was his wife, he had a
sexual right to her. He couldn’t rape her because intercourse and pun¬
ishment of her, called “chastisement,” were his legal rights.

When we take a stand and say, “If you force a woman to have sex in¬
side marriage, that is rape,” we are saying you cannot own a woman in
marriage. You do not own her body; you don’t own it outside, and you
don’t own it inside. That is an urgent political stand for us to take,
against the possession that husbands have over wives, the entitlement,
the sense of “I have a right to do to her what I want to do — leave me
alone, why are you bothering me? This isn’t your business. If I hurt her,
I hurt her. It’s like my car: if I want to drive my car into a brick wall, I
drive it into a brick wall, what business is that of yours?” That attitude
used to be grounded in law. We now have a little distance from that, but
not enough. When we look at male culture and what men say about
women, and when we talk to battered women, we can say that when
men have sex with women they feel a sense of entitlement, ownership,
and superiority that goes beyond what any adult human being has a
right to feel about another adult human being.

This movement has got to take a stand and say that men do not have
sexual rights to women’s bodies. And this movement has to understand —
when you see women who are hurt coming to you and you’re thinking,
This is so irrationaly so insane; why is this happeningy what is driving this
maril — part of what is driving him is that he has had intimate sexual rela¬
tions with this woman and from his point of view she belongs to him. If
you want to get in the way of that, you do so at threat to yourself.

It is a big mistake to think that you can do anything about battery if
you will not look at the common, ordinary assumption in it about men
and women: that a man experiences a right of sexual possession over a
woman. He has a long historical reason for feeling it, and he really be¬
lieves it to be true. We are changing that, and the change means that there
is a lot of social conflict. A lot of men are angry. A lot of women are afraid.

FREEDOM NOW 161

But it is going to change — it has to change. If it doesn’t, men will con¬
tinue to batter women because they will continue to feel that they have
the right, an implicit, God-given right, to own that person over there, be¬
cause of the sexual relationship that the man had with the woman.

Battered women do run away. They run away and they go back. And
they run away and they go back. And they run away and they go back.
There didn’t used to be shelters anywhere. Anyone who wanted to help
a battered woman was going to have to deal with the anger of the man.
Because there’s now some state support for shelters, the state stands a lit¬
tle bit between the man and whoever is helping the woman — but not
between the man and the woman.

I want to explain something to you about the experience of running
away so that maybe, for those of you who find it bewildering, you will
have some idea of what it means to run away and then decide to go
back. Most women have the idea that a house, when they get married
and they live in it — they clean it and they take care of it and they buy
pretty things for it and fix it up — is their home. They have this dumb
idea. And it’s amazing how much human beings want a home to live in.
So a woman, “a homemaker,” makes a home — where she and her hus¬
band and their children will live together. She may also be “working”;
she may not be.

In this time of social transition, we’re talking about so many experi¬
ences that are changing — that’s the good part. The hard part is to try to
keep track of the ways in which they’re changing so that we know what’s
happening around us. Of course she works, she works all the time. She
may be doing paid labor outside the home. Regardless, she thinks she
has a home. And when she runs away she has reached the point of de¬
ciding — understanding, believing — that she cannot stay one more sec¬
ond. She may run away because a particular outburst of violence has
been too terrible to stand. She may be very badly hurt when she runs
away. She may run away because she’s had a period of peace, and she
feels stronger and she thinks she can run away — but most women leave
at moments of high desperation, at moments when the husband goes
for the children, at moments when she believes she’s going to be killed.

162 LIFE AND DEATH

And then she gets out there and, still, even with the battered women’s
movement, still, there’s no place for women to go in this country.

I come from New York City; its a big city. Two years ago, the police
got a quarter of a million phone calls — just phone calls, just to the po¬
lice, that a woman was being beaten. There were in New York City 429
beds for women who were being battered. Most places in the country
are not better off than that.

So she runs away, and she’s desperate, and she’s probably just been
hurt. She may have children. She may have money, she may not; but
even if she has money, she won’t have access to it. The money might be
in the bank, but within twenty-four hours it’s his not hers. He’s not des¬
perate and bleeding. He knows what to do. She gets out there, and there
are a whole lot of other men on the street. She’s vulnerable; and she
doesn’t have money. And one way or another, they come after her; they
come after her to pick her up; they come after her to flirt; they come
after her to help her — meaning, usually, an exchange of something she
needs for something they want.

When she leaves this home that she thought she had, she goes out
into a land with predators in it — who are glad she’s there, because she is
vulnerable. And when she’s out there, she starts remembering that she
had a home. And she starts thinking that she has a right to have a home.
She may even get angry at the man who hurt her, and took her home
away from her. And somehow or another she will, in her mind, find a
rationale for reclaiming the home that she believes she has a right to.

But there’s nothing straightforward in society for her to do. She can’t
go to a court and say, “Look, I am a homemaker; I made the home. I
would like to live there. You see, I bought the curtains, cleaned the
floors, cooked the food.” She is suddenly homeless. And the power, the
desire, the feeling of having a right to be there is very often what sends
women back into trying to make deals with the batterer. She has to say,
“I’m sorry I left.” She has to say, “It was my fault; I didn’t mean it.” She
has to say, “You were right.” And if she says all of those things convinc¬
ingly enough, and if he wants her to come back, whatever his reasons,
she will then have a home.

FREEDOM NOW 1 63

But what will have happened to her? She will have had the experience
of submission, real submission — humiliation: “I am down on my knees,
please take me back.” And “Please take me back” sometimes just means
“Let me inside. I need a place to live; and you’re my best chance, please
take me back.” We see women entering into bargains in which, basi¬
cally, they are giving up any possibility of physical safety in order to
have a place to live, in order to have food on the table for their children.
It’s not just the money deal; it’s not just the economic deal; it’s that we
do have a right to a home — don’t we?

When is there a time in an adult woman’s life that this society says: a
woman without a man has a right to a home on her own terms — she has
a right to live in some kind of dignity with some kind of safety. The
problem of battery can’t be solved if we don’t understand that a woman
in this society actually does have a right to have a home. We re homeless
people unless we enter into a relationship with a man for a home. I am
not speaking about not entering into relationships with men; I am saying
that those relationships need to be relationships chosen in real freedom.

When a woman runs away from battery, she finds out that she wanted
to be hurt all along. This may be the most shocking news she’ll ever get
in her life. If she goes to a therapist, the therapist is likely to tell her, even
today, that she did the things she did in order to be hurt. Her priest, her
minister, her rabbi are likely to tell her the same thing. Her family doctor
is likely to tell her the same thing. One hopes no one at the shelter will
tell her the same thing, but there are cases in which that has happened.
This is an all-pervasive ideology about women: that what makes us dis¬
tinct from other people is that we really crave this brutal kind of atten¬
tion from men, and we provoke it because we’re looking for pain.

And there’s an underlying philosophy here that says that women are
basically masochistic, that the masochism is sexual — and part of what
that means is that when men hurt us, it’s not really the same kind of
problem as if a man were to kidnap a man and hurt him. No one says,
when a man hurts another man, that the second man enjoyed it. No one
says it was a sexual experience for him. No one says that something in his
nature craved it — otherwise, why would he have been a drunken fool in

164 LIFE AND DEATH

that bar, and said the things that he said to the first man? No matter what
men do to provoke violence, no one says it s in the nature of men to pro¬
voke violence. No matter how much male-on-male violence we see in
our society, no one says, “God, how come these men like not just beating
up other people; they like being beat up?” But with women, whenever
we re hurt, there’s an explanation already in place: we wanted it.

Now, part of what this does is to make us second-class, because it
means that there’s a different standard of what’s appropriate for women.
There’s a different standard of dignity. For instance, a man and woman
are married and she’s hit the first time — not the fourteenth time — and
she goes to her family and she says, “He hit me.” Do they say, “Move
out. Your rights have been violated”? They are not likely to. The advice
that she will get is that it’s her role and her nature both to take care of
him and, implicitly, to accept the pain. It’s bad advice. She should move
out the first time.

The issue here is the rights of human beings. And if you understand
that women are human beings you must ask: what is the right and hon¬
orable and proper way for this person to be treated by that person?
When feminists ask precisely that question, we’re told we don’t pay any
attention to the realities of gender. Well, we pay a hell of a lot of atten¬
tion to gender; that’s why we look at rape and battery and try to do
something about them — because these are crimes against human beings
that happen because of gender prejudice — because of a prejudice
against women, a hatred of women — that we do not deserve, that we
have not earned, that no one has a right to act out on us. But we inter¬
nalize that hatred and we settle for second-best because we know we
can’t have day-to-day real equality. And we try to cut our losses, and we
cut our deals, and we do the best that we can, and women keep getting
beaten.

People in the battered-women’s movement, feminists, have been very
reluctant to say that we are talking about rape within marriage when we
talk about women having sex with their husbands inside a marriage in
which there is violence, and the kind of emotional abuse that goes with
the violence. It is my opinion that when a woman is being brutalized,

FREEDOM NOW 165

being hit, being tortured, being intimidated — that then when the man
has sex with her he is raping her. She is in a continuous situation of force.
The fact that the force was not applied at the moment before intercourse
does not mean that the intercourse was engaged in freely. In this circum¬
stance, freedom is a sick joke, and so is the notion of consent. There is no
freedom when a woman is living in a situation in which, day in and day
out, her bread and her water are intimidation, brutality, and pain.

I would like to see us stop trying to be so damn civil to the people who
are hurting us. I would like for us to stop thinking we need to prove any¬
thing to them. They need to prove to us that they can respect our lives
enough to make social policy that stops battery. And as long as battery is
going on, the woman who is being battered is also being raped. That is
the truth from my point of view, and I would like to see us not gloss it
over, because every time we do, we tell a lie about what is happening to
the woman. And we also make stronger the unspoken assumptions that
the sex may be fine, but the battery is something different. The battery is
not something different. Possession is the way they’re related.

Twenty years ago, in 1972, I made an escape (not from the home in
which I was battered, I had done that already — and still found an assas¬
sin husband ready to beat me up every time I turned the corner). I es¬
caped in the middle of the night, and I ran away to a different country.
Had I not, I don’t believe I would be alive. Current research shows that
battered women are in more danger when they leave than when they’re
actually in the batterer’s home — in more danger of being killed. If there
is a no-win situation, that’s it. Escape only means continuing to live a
life in which someone wants to hurt you. And the only time you get any
relief from living that life is if he finds another woman he wants to hurt.
There’s not a lot of solace in that.

What do we do about the batterers? This question is an urgent one.
You pull them off of one woman, they find another woman. There
aren’t individual solutions to this problem, although every womans life
saved is a victory of sorts. What I’m trying to say is that escape is always
only partial. Women who have been battered often remain hunted. It’s
not just that we stay frightened, which we do; it’s not just that we have

166 LIFE AND DEATH

nightmares, which we do; it’s not just that we have flashbacks in which
everything is real and happening right now instead of in the past, which
we do. It’s that he’s out there. He is somewhere. He is hurting someone.
And if he $ not, it’s sort of an accident. It’s for some reason that doesn’t
have anything to do with justice. You may have gotten away, but you
didn’t get justice. You may have gotten away, but you didn’t get free¬
dom. Because he’s out there.

I ask myself the question, What is freedom for a battered woman?
Initially, it’s just not being hit. It’s anything that will stop you from
being hit. That’s incredible freedom: you go through a day and nobody
hits you. You go through two days and nobody hits you. You go
through a week and you haven’t been hit and you can barely believe it.
But then you want to walk down the street and you don’t know where
he is. Axe you free? No, you’re not free. We cannot talk about what free¬
dom is for women without talking about what freedom is for battered
women. To me, that means that every woman who is or has been bat¬
tered has to have in our society a real right of sovereignty over her body.
There have to be boundaries that she can set and that everyone else is
legally bound to respect. If they don’t, they will be punished. No excep¬
tions. No bullshit.

A woman has a right to safety — in real life, not abstractly. A lot has to
change before safety is possible. All the implicit assumptions about
women’s inferiority have to change.

Women will never be free unless we are not any longer treated as ob¬
jects, which includes sexual objects. We are human beings; we are the
center of our own lives. We are not things for men to act out on. We
will never be free unless we stop the notion that violence is okay. It’s not
okay. Nobody has a right to control another human being through vio¬
lence. We cannot continue to sanction violence as a way of life — for
both victim and executioner. Women are not ever going to be free un¬
less all the institutions that support hurting women end — including the
use of pornography by men, such that the hurting of women becomes a
form of sexual entertainment; including the exploitation of women in
prostitution, such that men have a right to lease women’s bodies for sex-

FREEDOM NOW 167

ual release whenever they want; and including incest, now the reigning
model of male-female relations.

We have to deal with the sexualization of children in our society. As
women have rebelled and aspired — however much we think we failed —
to some kind of social equality, men have looked for sex objects who
will fit a sexual paradigm based on inequality. The question is, Can men
have sex with equals? The answer may well be no. If the answer is no,
the men have to change or we have to give up equality. I think we
should decide not to give up equality.

Another thing that has to change is that all the people who cant hear
the screams have got to start being able to hear them. Those who can t
see the bruises on women standing in front of them have to be able to
see them. They also have to have something they can do about it, and
somewhere they can go when they hear, when they see.

Think about the legal and social meaning of privacy, the sense in
which a mans home is his castle. Privacy for men is often power over
women and children. Women need to be arguing for equality, not for
privacy. For those of you who are involved in the prochoice struggle,
think about the way privacy has been the basis for arguing for our rights
over our body. When we argue for privacy, we collude in protecting the
privacy of men in their homes who hurt women and children. We need
to pursue a different strategy in relation to getting and keeping the
abortion right.

I know many of you do not agree — you are not prochoice — but what
I am talking about here is that every single issue has to be thought
through in terms of what it means about male dominance over women
and children. Does it reinforce the power of men in the home over
women and children?

Strong women are also victims of battery; smart women, weak
women, stupid women. There is nothing about being victimized that
says anything at all about the character of the woman to whom it hap¬
pens. We have a right to resist unfairness, and this is a political struggle.
If we do not deal with the things that give men their social and eco¬
nomic power over women, we cannot stop battery from happening. We

168 LIFE AND DEATH

can take care of one injured woman after another, but we can t other¬
wise stop her from being beaten. And surely those of you who have seen
the injuries would rather stop the injuries from happening than simply
take care of woman after woman after woman who’s been hurt.

I want us to use our capacity to bear pain — which in women is quite
highly developed — in the pursuit of political change. I want us to take
all that concern that we have about being made outsiders — being
pushed into exile because we don’t conform — and use it politically.

And finally I want to say that what’s urgent is to make the war against
women visible. When it’s invisible we can’t fight it, and when it’s invisible
every single woman is isolated in the trauma of what is happening to her.
She has no way out, and she has no way to become whole again. But
standing together, and seeing the connections in the various kinds of vi¬
olence against women — and in the exploitation that is not overdy vio¬
lent — we can go up against the power of the batterer, the legal system
that still protects him, and the society that gives him privileges over us.

But the woman has to win. We have to win. Our lives are at stake

here. There is a great sadness in escape without freedom. But it is very
much better than not escaping at all. And the happiness that a battered
woman feels in being able to live an individual life and make her own
decisions, from the largest to the smallest — in feeling the joy of self-de¬
termination — is overwhelming.

I thank you for every single day of your lives that you have done
something to help any woman who’s been battered. Speaking for so
many women, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

REMEMBER, RESIST, DO NOT COMPLY

I want us to think about how far we have come politically. I would say
we have accomplished what is euphemistically called “breaking the si¬
lence.” We have begun to speak about events, experiences, realities,
truths not spoken about before; especially experiences that have hap-
pened to women and been hidden — experiences that the society has not
named, that the politicians have not recognized; experiences that the law
has not addressed from the point of view of those who have been hurt.
But sometimes when we talk about “breaking the silence,” people con¬
ceptualize “the silence” as being superficial, as if there is talk — chatter,
really — and laid over the talk there is a superficial level of silence that has
to do with manners or politeness. Women are indeed taught to be seen
and not heard. But I am talking about a deep silence: a silence that goes
to the heart of tyranny, its nature. There is a tyranny that preordains not
only who can say what but what women especially can say. There is a
tyranny that determines who cannot say anything, a tyranny in which
people are kept from being able to say the most important things about
what life is like for them. That is the kind of tyranny I mean.

The political systems that we live in are based on this deep silence.
They are based on what we have not said. In particular, they are built on
what women — women in every racial group, in every class, including the

169

170 LIFE AND DEATH

most privileged — have not said. The assumptions underlying our political
systems are also based on what women have not said. Our ideas of democ¬
racy and equality — ideas that men have had, ideas that express what men
think democracy and equality are — evolved absent the voices, the experi¬
ences, the lives, the realities of women. The principles of freedom that we
hear enunciated as truisms are principles that were arrived at despite this
deep silence: without our participation. We are all supposed to share and
take for granted the commonplace ideas of social and civic fairness; but
these commonplace ideas are based on our silence. What passes as normal
in life is based on this same silence. Gender itself — what men are, what
women are — is based on the forced silence of women; and beliefs about
community — what a community is, what a community should be — arc
based on this silence. Societies have been organized to maintain the si¬
lence of women — which suggests that we cannot break this deep silence
without changing the ways in which societies arc organized.

We have made beginnings at breaking the deep silence. We have
named force as such when it is used against us, although it once was
called something else. It used to be a legal right, for instance, that men
had in marriage. They could force their wives to have intercourse and it
was not called force or rape; it was called desire or love. We have chal¬
lenged the old ideology of sexual conquest as a natural game in which
women are targets and men are conquering heroes; and we have said
that the model itself is predatory and that those who act out its aggres¬
sive imperatives are predators, not lovers. We have said that. We have
identified rape; we have identified incest; we have identified battery; we
have identified prostitution; we have identified pornography — as crimes
against women, as means of exploiting women, as ways of hurting
women that are systematic and supported by the practices of the soci¬
eties in which we live. We have identified sexual exploitation as abuse.
We have identified objectification and turning women into commodi¬
ties for sale as dehumanizing, deeply dehumanizing. We have identified
objectification and sexual exploitation as mechanisms for creating infe¬
riority, real inferiority: not an abstract concept but a life lived as an infe¬
rior person in a civil society. We have identified patterns of violence that

REMEMBER, RESIST, DO NOT COMPLY 171

take place in intimate relationships. We know now that most rape is not
committed by the dangerous and predatory stranger but by the danger¬
ous and predatory boyfriend, lover, friend, husband, neighbor, the man
we are closest to, not the man who is farthest away.

And we have learned more about the stranger, too. We have learned
more about the ways in which men who do not know us target us and
hunt us down. We have refused to accept the presumption in this soci¬
ety that the victim is responsible for her own abuse. We have refused to
agree that she provoked it, that she wanted it, that she liked it. These are
the basic dogmas of pornography, which we have rejected. In rejecting
pornography we have rejected the fundamentalism of male supremacy,
which simply and unapologetically defines women as creatures, lower
than human, who want to be hurt and injured and raped. We have
changed laws so that, for instance, rape now can be prosecuted without
the requirement of corroboration — there does not have to have been an
eyewitness who saw the rape before a woman can press charges. There
used to have to be one. A woman now does not have to fight nearly to
the death in order to show that she resisted. If she was not sadistically
injured — beaten black and blue, hit by a lead pipe, whatever — the pre¬
sumption used to be that she consented. We have standardized the way
in which evidence is collected in rape cases so that whether or not a
prosecution can be brought does not depend on the whims or compe¬
tence of investigating officers. We have not done any of this for battered
women, though we have tried to provide some refuge, some shelter, an
escape route. Nothing that we have done for women who have been
raped or battered has helped women who have been prostituted.

We have changed social and legal recognition of who the perpetrator
is. We have done that. We have challenged what appears to be the per¬
manence of male dominance by destabilizing it, by refusing to accept it
as reality, our reality. We have said no. No, it is not our reality.

And although we have provided services for rape victims, for battered
women, we have never been able to provide enough. I suggest to you
that if any society took seriously what it means to have half of its popu¬
lation raped, battered as often as women are in both the United States

172 LIFE AND DEATH

and Canada, we would be turning government buildings into shelters.
We would be opening our churches to women and saying, “You own
them. Live in them. Do what you want with them.” We would be turn¬
ing over our universities.

What remains to be done? To think about helping a rape victim is
one thing; to think about ending rape is another. We need to end rape.
We need to end incest. We need to end battery. We need to end prosti¬
tution and we need to end pornography. That means that we need to
refuse to accept that these are natural phenomena that just happen be¬
cause some guy is having a bad day.

In each country, male dominance is organized differently. In some
countries, women have to deal with genital mutilation. In some coun¬
tries, abortion is forced so that female fetuses are systematically aborted.
In China, forced abortion is state-mandated. In India, a free-market
economy forces masses of women to abort female fetuses and, failing
that, to commit infanticide on female infants. Think about what poli¬
cies on abortion mean for living, adult women: the meaning to their
status. Notice that the Western concept of choice — crucial to us — does
not cover the situation of women in either China or India. Each time
we look at the status of women in a given country, we have to look at
the ways in which male dominance is organized. In the United States,
for instance, we have the growth of a population of serial killers. They
are a subculture in my country. They are no longer lonely deviants. Law
enforcement sources, always conservative, estimate that each and every
day nearly 400 serial killers are active in the United States.

In my view, we need to concentrate on the perpetrators of crimes
against women instead of asking ourselves over and over and over again,
why did that happen to her? what’s wrong with her? why did he pick
her? Why should he hit or hurt anyone: what’s wrong with him? He is
the question. He is the problem. It is his violence that we find ourselves
running from and hiding from and suffering from. The women’s move¬
ment has to be willing to name the perpetrator, to name the oppressor.
The women’s movement has to refuse to exile women who have on
them the stench of sexual abuse, the smell, the stigma, the sign. We

REMEMBER, RESIST, DO NOT COMPLY 173

need to refuse to exile women who have been hurt more than once:
raped many times; beaten many times; not nice, not respectable; don’t
have nice homes. There is no women’s movement if it does not include
the women who are being hurt and the women who have the least. The
womens movement has to take on the family systems in our countries:
systems in which children are raped and tortured. The women’s move¬
ment has to take on the battered women who have not escaped — and
we have to ask ourselves why: not why didn’t they escape, but why are we
settling for the fact that they are still captives and prisoners.

We have to take on prostitution as an issue: not a debating issue; a
life-and-death issue. Most prostituted women in the West are incest vic¬
tims who ran away from home, who have been raped, who are pimped
when they are still children — raped, homeless, poor, abandoned chil¬
dren. We have to take on poverty: not in the liberal sense of heartfelt
concern but in the concrete sense, in the real world. We have to take on
what it means to stand up for women who have nothing because when
women have nothing, it’s real nothing: no homes, no food, no shelter,
often no ability to read. We have to stop trivializing injuries and insults
to women the way our political systems do. As someone who has expe¬
rienced battery and was then and is now a politically committed
woman, I will tell you that the difference between being tortured be¬
cause you have a political idea or commitment and being tortured be¬
cause of your race or sex is the difference between having dignity of
some kind and having no dignity at all. There is a difference.

We cannot change what is wrong with our feminism if we are willing
to accept the prostitution of women. Prostitution is serial rape: the
rapist changes but the raped woman stays the same; money washes the
man’s hands clean. In some countries women are sold into sexual slav¬
ery, often as children. In other countries — like Canada and the United
States — prostitutes are created through child sexual abuse, especially
incest, poverty, and homelessness. As long as there are consumers, in free-
market economies prostitutes will be created; to create the necessary
(desired) supply of prostitutes, children have to be raped, poor, home¬
less. We cannot accept this; we cannot accept prostitution.

174 LIFE AND DEATH

We need to be able to prosecute marital rape with success: to get con¬
victions. Successful prosecution of marital rape and eliminating prosti¬
tution challenge two ends of the same continuum. Do men own women
or not? If men can buy and sell women on street corners, yes, they do
own women. If men have a right to rape women in marriage — even an
implicit right, because juries will not convict — yes, then men do own
women. We are the ones who have to say — in words, in actions, in so¬
cial policy, in law — no, men do not own women. In order to do that, we
need political discipline. We need to take seriously the consequences of
sexual abuse to us, to women. We need to understand what sexual abuse
has done to us — why are we so damned hard to organize? We need to
comprehend that sexual abuse has broken us into a million pieces and
we carry those pieces bumping and crashing inside: were broken rock
inside; chaos; afraid and unsure when not cold and numb. Were heroes
at endurance; but so far cowards at resistance.

There is a global trafficking in women; as long as women are being
bought and sold in a global slave traffic we are not free. There is a
pornography crisis in the United States. Women in the United States
live in a society saturated with sexually brutal, exploitative material that
says: rape her, beat her, hurt her, she will like it, it is fun for her. We
need to put women first. Surely the freedom of women must mean
more to us than the freedom of pimps. We need to do anything that will
interrupt the colonizing of the female body. We need to refuse to accept
the givens. We need to ask ourselves what political rights we need as
women. Do not assume that in the eighteenth century male political
thinkers answered that question and do not assume that when your own
Charter* was rewritten in the twentieth century the question was an¬
swered. The question has not been answered. What laws do we need?
What would freedom be for us? What principles are necessary for our
well-being? Why are women being sold on street corners and tortured
in their homes, in societies that claim to be based on freedom and jus¬
tice? What actions must be taken? What will it cost us and why are we

^Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, Part 1 of the Constitution Act of 1982.

REMEMBER, RESIST, DO NOT COMPLY 175

too afraid to pay, and are the women who have gotten a little from the
womens movement afraid that resistance or rebellion or even political
inquiry will cost them the little they have gotten? Why are we still mak¬
ing deals with men one by one instead of collectively demanding what
we need?

I am going to ask you to remember that as long as a woman is being
bought and sold anywhere in the world, you are not free, nor are you
safe. You too have a number; some day your turn will come. I’m going
to ask you to remember the prostituted, the homeless, the battered, the
raped, the tortured, the murdered, the raped-then-murdered, the mur-
dered-then-raped; and I am going to ask you to remember the pho¬
tographed, the ones that any or all of the above happened to and it was
photographed and now the photographs are for sale in our free coun¬
tries. I want you to think about those who have been hurt for the fun,
the entertainment, the so-called speech of others; those who have been
hurt for profit, for the financial benefit of pimps and entrepreneurs. I
want you to remember the perpetrator and I am going to ask you to re¬
member the victims: not just tonight but tomorrow and the next day. I
want you to find a way to include them — the perpetrators and the vic¬
tims — in what you do, how you think, how you act, what you care
about, what your life means to you.

Now, I know, in this room, some of you are the women I have been
talking about. I know that. People around you may not. I am going to
ask you to use every single thing you can remember about what was
done to you — how it was done, where, by whom, when, and, if you
know, why — to begin to tear male dominance to pieces, to pull it apart,
to vandalize it, to destabilize it, to mess it up, to get in its way, to fuck it
up. I have to ask you to resist, not to comply, to destroy the power men
have over women, to refuse to accept it, to abhor it, and to do whatever
is necessary despite its cost to you to change it.

CONFRONTATIONS

RACE, SEX, AND SPEECH IN AMERIKA

AMERIKA NOW: THE ETERNAL PRESENT

The mental geography of Amerika is a landscape of forgetfulness, useful
in a country saturated with sexual abuse; a flat nothingness — no history,
no yesterday with facts and details; a desert lit up by the blinding glare
of a relentless, empty optimism. The past is obliterated, because the past
is burdened by bad news.

Slavery is a rumor, except that some black folk seem extremely pissed
off about it. Rape is a lie, useful once for persecuting black men haunted
by the rumor of slavery but now taken up with malignant intent by fa¬
natic, angry women, traitors to forgetting. Free speech is bigger than a
right; it is a theme park in which pimps and esteemed writers alternate
“Discourse” with Spin-the-Bottle: one-handed art, one-handed sex —
the sound of one hand typing. Its like a utopian summer camp for
spoiled brats: once you enter Free Speech Park you can go on all the
rides you want and nobody can stop you; so there.

My colleagues — writers and feminists — proudly call themselves First
Amendment fundamentalists or absolutists, in self-proclaimed philo¬
sophical and pragmatic accord with those who learn rules by rote, recite
dogma without deviation, and will not think. History moves and society

179

180 LIFE AND DEATH

changes but forgetfulness is both blissful and patriotic. In Amerika, opti¬
mism and amnesia are forms of nationalism; and so is First Amendment
fundamentalism — a happy loyalty to the status quo; we live in the best of
all possible worlds. A country devoted to the eternal present is, of course,
a perpetrator s dream come true; and Amerika does spawn perpetrators.
Memory means accusation, recognition, discontent. In the Free Speech
playground, one might rebel against being the pimps ride, or even the
esteemed writer’s: don’t fuck with me, one might say, spoiling the fun.
The players, certain of their right to bang at will, might feel really bad:
like, “censored.”

At Amerika’s best it produced Emerson, Whitman, Thoreau — they
hated slavery; Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Susan B. Anthony, Margaret
Fuller — they hated slavery; Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, Har¬
riet Tubman — they hated slavery. Each and every one of them embod¬
ied an honest Amerikan optimism in intellect and activism that was not
based on forgetting. They thought; they acted; they were citizens no
matter what the law said; and they did not hide from life, reality, and re¬
sponsibility by hiding behind the law — oh, well, slavery is constitu¬
tional, enough said. They were also Victorians and moralists — current
swearwords.

THE FOUNDING PATRIARCHS WERE TYRANTS

George Washington was the richest man in Amerika. He freed all his
slaves when he died, unlike Thomas Jefferson, who did not.

James Madison made an annual profit of $257 on each slave he
owned and spent $12 or $13 on maintenance.

In 1619, the first black slaves were imported and the Virginia House
of Burgesses, the first representative assembly in Amerika, was estab¬
lished. The Virginia House set up a mechanism for recording and en¬
forcing contracts, which made the exploitation of indentured servants
easier and more secure, backed by local, not British, law and force.

By 1700, fifty Virginia families controlled most of the region’s money
and owned most of the land, slaves, indentured servants (to be precise:

RACE, SEX. AND SPEECH IN AMERIKA 181

owned the contracts of the indentured servants). The males of those
families seemed to rotate being governor, advisers to the governor, and
local magistrates.

In 1787, fifty-five white men met in Philadelphia to create a consti¬
tution, currently treated by both the political Right and Left as a di¬
vinely revealed text. Not much resembling Moses, most of them were
lawyers; owned slaves and land or were rich from manufacturing or
shipping (which implicated them in slave trafficking); owned white
women — wives and daughters — who were not persons under the law.
Half loaned money for profit. Forty had government bonds, thus a spe¬
cial interest in having a government that could redeem those bonds.
Slaves, indentured servants, women, men who did not own property,
and Indians were not invited to the party. It was a rich-white-guy thing.

The framers’ idea was to form a republican central government that
(1) could facilitate commerce among the states, internationally for the
new union, and (if you are credulous) with the Indian nations; and (2)
was too weak to interfere with slavery. Slavery was the basis for the
agrarian economy of the South and the linchpin of what its ruling elite
regarded as their “civilization.” Slavery was still legal in the North, but
the economy was industrial with a manufacturing and shipping base.
This meant that the North profited handsomely from the transport and
sale of kidnapped Africans.

The framers did protect slavery: outright in the body of the text rati¬
fied in 1787 for a twenty-year period and by creating a legal framework
that kept the federal government anemic while giving the states virtually
all the authority and powers of governance. The federal government had
only the powers explicitly designated in the Constitution. For instance,
it got to regulate commerce, create a navy, coin money, tax, go to war,
all with the famous checks and balances that made each exercise pur¬
posefully difficult; and, with its two representative assemblies standing
in for white men with money, the federal government could provide the
appearance of democracy, though never the substance.

The Bill of Rights, which is the first ten amendments to the 1787
Constitution, was ratified in 1791 largely because the rabble, having

182 LIFE AND DEATH

defeated the British in the name of equality as well as independence,
demanded a legal guarantee of democratic rights — as in “We hold
these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” The
framers gave in after protracted and stubborn resistance. Not by acci¬
dent, they saw to it that equality — as an idea, an ideal, a right, a prin¬
ciple, an element of liberty or law — disappeared from the Amerikan
political vocabulary and was lost to constitutional law. But in fact the
framers went even further: they created a trick bill of rights. Rather
than guaranteeing democratic rights that were inalienable, inviolable,
and affirmative — the states be damned — they used the Bill of Rights as
yet another means of restricting federal power. No citizen had a
straight-out right to speak, to assemble, to bear arms, such that the
government was obligated to uphold the right for the sake of the citi¬
zen. The Bill of Rights applied only to the central government, not to
the states; so that when the First Amendment said, “Congress shall
make no law . . . ,” only the United States Congress was restricted.

The problem — from the point of view of those who value rights — is
both structural and purposeful. James Madison — brilliant and cunning,
contemptuous of ordinary (not elite) men, and an enemy of direct
democracy — engineered the faux Bill of Rights so that it gave freedom
from , not freedom to . The Second Amendment right “to keep and bear
arms” suggested that all those guns vouchsafed to white men could be
mobilized by the states to fend off illegitimate federal power, which was
the elite definition of tyranny. Freedom from protected an armed,
landed, moneyed, white-male ruling class from the projected incursions
of a potentially bigger power, a central government. Speech and guns
need to be thought of as forms of wealth analogous to land, slaves,
money, women. If you had them, the federal government could not in¬
terfere; if you did not, Madisons faux Bill of Rights did not give you the
right to them.

The system appeared to work as a democracy for white men because
land was bountiful and could be acquired: taken from Indians. There
were many efforts to turn Indians into slaves, but these failed; so the
white guys killed the Indians instead. At first the conflict might have

RACE, SEX, AND SPEECH IN AMERIKA 183

passed for a classic imperialist war with two armed if unequal sides; but
it soon became an intentional, organized genocide.

State governments maintained supremacy over the federal govern¬
ment, even after the Civil War. The Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fif¬
teenth Amendments were designed to stop slavery — to supersede all
state slave laws and to stop the actual practice — as well as to enfranchise
men, not women, who had been slaves. Their enactment — in 1865,
1868, and 1870 — amounted to a huge federal power grab, successful
because the South lay ruined, in defeat. These amendments were vic¬
tor’s justice, the Union’s dignifying its dead through, finally, abolition
and a new assertion of domestic federal power. But the idea was still to
restrict government, this time state government, not to give affirmative
rights to citizens. Under the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments,
the state could not stand in the way of a black man’s due process or vot¬
ing rights, but a mob sure could. Only the Thirteenth Amendment,
which prohibited “slavery” and “involuntary servitude,” restricted both
states and individual citizens.

Congress still represented white men; and the states were still able,
despite these new amendments, to enact despotic laws that contravened
every value symbolized by the Bill of Rights to Amerikans, who were
dazzled by the symbolism but indifferent to the substance. Without fear
of challenge, southern states created complicated Jim Crow laws, a legal
system of apartheid, enforced by police power, state courts, force of
arms, and vigilante terrorism. States were able to determine which citi¬
zens had which rights until the defeat of de jure (legal) segregation,
which could not have been possible without a triumph of federal power
and the near-total destruction of states’ rights as such. Empirically
speaking, this happened sometime in the mid-1960s. Even then, the au¬
thority of the federal government to pass the 1 964 Civil Rights Act did
not reside in the Bill of Rights — the government could not expand a
right to speak or assemble to blacks, for instance, because no such right
existed. The federal government’s civil rights authority resided in the
commerce clause of the U.S. Constitution, the so-called spending
power of Congress (you take federal money, you do what the feds say),

184 LIFE AND DEATH

in the power of the federal government to organize its own agencies
(e.g., to create a civil rights commission), and in the Fourteenth and Fif¬
teenth Amendments. The segregationists tried to use the Bill of Rights
(for instance, the First Amendment freedom of association right) as a
shield; consequently the Bill of Rights had to be ignored — informally
suspended, as it were — in order to enable the federal government to
protect black lives and liberty: to extend the simplest rights of human
civil society to blacks.

Women got the vote in 1920 by constitutional amendment, but it
was not until 1971 that the U.S. Supreme Court deigned to recognize
the civil existence of women by holding that, under the Fourteenth
Amendment, Idaho could not favor males over women as administra¬
tors of wills and estates “solely on the basis of sex.” Idaho, said the
Supreme Court, had to have other good reasons, too. The decision
{Reedy, Reed ) is appallingly narrow and condescending; but sex discrim¬
ination became litigable and women litigious.

Fortunately in 1965, in Griswold v. Connecticut , the justices had
found in the Bill of Rights “penumbras” (shadows) and “emanations” in
the First, Third, Fourth, Fifth, and Ninth Amendments — take that,
Madison, you old fart — allowing them to strike down a state law crimi¬
nalizing contraception. The justices were specifically protecting marital
privacy, gender-neutral, by giving it constitutional legitimacy. By 1973
the penumbras and emanations joined with the Fourteenth Amend¬
ment in Roe v. Wade to strike down a Texas law criminalizing abortion;
but this time the privacy, gender-specific, “cannot be said to be ab¬
solute.” His is; the married couple’s (his) is; hers ain’t.

So, every time African Americans or women have needed a right in
order to exercise liberty, we have needed an affirmative right — backed
up by federal power: the opposite of what the Bill of Rights allows. Each
time, we go against the way the Constitution was framed and freedom
was conceived. For blacks and women, the states have been the tyrant;
but both groups have needed affirmative rights that no government
could trump. And although I myself have never met a penumbra I
didn’t like, it is wrong for women to continue to live in the shadows —

RACE. SEX. AND SPEECH IN AMERIKA 185

of law or life. I want rights so affirmative they are lit up from inside: all
flame, all fire, no shadow, no faux.

For these reasons — and more — each time I hear a colleague — writer
or feminist — express adoration and obeisance to “the Founding Fathers”
and their sacred founding texts, I get physically ill. I’ve been fluish a lot
lately.

THOMAS JEFFERSON: PRIVACY, PROPERTY, AND MISOGYNY

In 1783 Thomas Jefferson wrote a model constitution for Virginia in
which he included a free speech clause: “Printing presses shall be subject
to no other restraint than liableness to legal prosecution for false facts
printed and published.”

He meant printing presses, not satellites, video, or the Internet. Pho¬
tography had not been invented yet; he did not take it into account.

Jefferson, though a lawyer and a politician, was not tricky like his
proteg^ James Madison. He respected language in a sincere and literary
way. “False facts” meant lies, inaccuracies, untruths.

The cruelty of contemporary media would not have surprised him,
but its invasiveness would have. Jack McLaughlin, who studied Jeffer¬
son’s nearly lifelong preoccupation with designing and building Monti-
cello, noted in Jefferson and Monticello that “[l]oss of control of his pri¬
vacy was one of Jefferson’s few real fears, so he took extraordinary efforts
to assure that this would not happen.” It was not as if he were living in
a row house. His father, Peter, was a land speculator, owned 1,000 acres
outright in 1735, and was part of a company that had an 800,000-acre
land grant. Shadwell, where Jefferson was born in 1743, was built on
400 acres. When John Wayles, his wife’s father, died, Jefferson got con¬
trol of her inheritance of 135 slaves and 11,000 acres of land. Still, he
pulled down and rebuilt parts of Monticello to ensure privacy. In
Thomas Jefferson , Willard Sterne Randall summed up the conclusions of
many Jefferson biographers when he wrote that “Jefferson had a lifelong
aversion to revealing his personal life except to members of his own
family, and then only discreetly.” fefferson’s sense of privacy — and his

186 LIFE AND DEATH

entitlement to it — go to the heart of his conception of free speech: say
what you want, standing on your land, not mine, and it had better be
accurate, or the long arm of the law, indistinguishable from my own,
will get you.

He was, like his peers, the head of a small empire, a feudal kingdom.
He would not have given legal license to the camera to invade his do¬
main. Limits to speech were implicit in his way of life, which is precisely
what the Constitution and Bill of Rights were designed to protect. It
was left to Tom Paine — not rich, not fortunate — to express the civic
ethic that both men valued:

Calumny is a species of treachery that ought to be punished so well as
any other kind of treachery. It is a private vice productive of public evils;
because it is possible to irritate men into disaffection by continual
calumny who never intended to be disaffected.

Both Paine and Jefferson thought that a democratic republic was char¬
acterized by civil harmony and that verbal harassment based on lies or
inaccuracies was a subversion of citizenship and civic society.

Jefferson’s experience of speech included his own writing, his public
speaking (which was timid and ineffective), and his love of books. Dur¬
ing his lifetime he collected several libraries. Books were destroyed in a
fire at Shadwell, the plantation on which he grew up. Later he sold a
second collection at a low price to the United States government when
the British burned the Library of Congress in the War of 1812. He was,
in fact, so angry at the British that, according to historian Fawn Brodie,
“he suggested paying incendiaries in London to set British buildings
afire in return.”

Though Jefferson died considerably in debt (and some of his slaves
were sold to pay it off), he never stopped buying books in his lifetime.
He wrote political essays, a model constitution, a book, and an autobi¬
ography. He kept journals and wrote thousands of letters (28,000 sur¬
vive him). He wrote down every expenditure he made.

Jeffersonian free speech presumed privacy, literacy, bookishness, civil-

RACE, SEX, AND SPEECH IN AMERIKA 187

ity in public discourse, and a legal requirement of accuracy for publish¬
ers. It is an egregious mistake to think about the great and mesmerizing
idea of free speech without remembering JefFersons thousands of acres
and many hundreds of books.

JefFersons sense of self-sovereignty was not based on an abstract con¬
ception of mans worth or on childhood self-esteem. It came from his
social and economic dominance over white women and his ownership
of black slaves, male and female. His misogyny in particular seems re¬
lated to issues of property.

His father, Peter, died owning sixty slaves when Thomas was fourteen.
Not believing in primogeniture and entail, Peter did not leave all his
wealth (land, slaves, money, horses, hogs) to Thomas, the eldest son, as
was the custom. Instead Peter left Thomass mother the use of all the land
and capital until Thomas turned twenty-one, which Thomas seemed to
resent deeply. Though Thomas himself did not believe in primogeniture
and entail either, his antagonism to his mother became intense. Peter also
left her lifetime use of one-third of his estate, which she would lose if she
remarried. He left dowries and some land and slaves to his six daughters.
Although the females did not actually own anything, Thomas’s misogyny
was ignited by Peters delaying of his own outright ownership until he was
twenty-one. When Shadwell burned down in 1770, Thomas mourned
the loss of his books, a direct legacy from his father, but had no empathy
for his mother. He used the occasion to move to Charlottesville while his
mother and sisters lived in an overseer’s shack; and he embarked on build¬
ing Monticello for himself, as McLaughlin says, “motivated by a con¬
scious desire to escape from the rule of his mother.” In 1772 Jefferson
married Martha Wayles and that year received a shipment of 280 African
slaves. Martha’s father, also a lawyer, was an extremely wealthy landowner
and slave trafficker. After the death of his third wife, John Wayles took as
his consort the slave Betty Hemings, who bore him many children, in¬
cluding Sally. When Wayles died, the same year Sally was born, Martha
inherited as property her fathers illicit mate and her own half-sister.
Martha died in childbirth in 1782 at thirty-three.

188 i. iff; and death

As a young man, unmarried, Jefferson copied into his journals
misogynist passages from Milton, Homer, Shakespeare, Pope, and now
lesser known contemporary writers. In that same journal, according to
Randall, “he fairly rants” against his mother. According to Brodie,
“Later he confessed that when he suffered from insomnia as a young
man, he would lie awake formulating ‘a love and murder novel/” In his
later life he wrote to one of his daughters: “Nothing is more disgusting
to our sex as a want of cleanliness and delicacy in yours,” with detailed
instructions as to how she should groom herself and dress. To another
daughter on the occasion of her marriage he wrote: “The happiness of
your life depends now on the continuing to please a single person. To
this all other objects must be secondary, even your love to me.”

When Jefferson was in revolutionary France as United States ambas¬
sador, he hated the politically committed women he met: “The tender
breasts of ladies were not formed for political convulsions and the
French ladies miscalculate much their own happiness when they wander
from the field of their influence into that of politicks. ” He saw to it that
his own legitimate daughters were well-educated but not for any public
or political purpose. (He even had his teen-age slave Sally Hemings tu¬
tored in French and music.) While he publicly opposed slavery, the po¬
litical disenfranchisement of his mother, wife, daughters, and sisters did
not trouble him at all. He did not notice it. Instead, it seemed his
daughters were educated for the purpose of intellectual and emotional
intercourse with him. His letters to them are intimate and controlling,
dictating every aspect of identity and behavior. His love is expressed
with a sometimes seductive, sometimes overbearing intensity, but it is
always conditional on obedience and compliance. “Keep my letters,” he
wrote his oldest daughter, “and read them at times, that you may always
have present in your mind those things which will endear you to me.”
There is an incestuous quality to his intimacy and manipulation, fur¬
ther underscored by the callousness he felt to what would happen to
them as adults when they were not his: “The chance that in marriage
[my daughters] will draw a blockhead I calculate at about fourteen to

RACE. SEX, AND SPEECH IN AMER1KA 189

one.” Sally Hemings, of course, did not draw a blockhead: at the age of
fourteen, not in marriage, she drew him.

SALLY HEMINGS, FOUNDING RAPE VICTIM

“For any slave child at Monticello,” wrote Fawn Brodie, who in Thomas
Jefferson: An Intimate Biography (1974) made the strong circumstantial
case that Hemings was Jefferson’s mate for thirty-eight years, “Jefferson
was a kind of deity. Since her own father John Wayles had died in the
year of her birth, Jefferson was perhaps as close to being a parental figure
as anyone she had known.” Brodies sentimentality covers up the cruelty
of both slavery and patriarchy: a master, an owner, a ruler was the reign¬
ing father figure. This, too, was what the Constitution and Bill of
Rights were constructed to protect: the southern way of life — the white
legitimate family who worshipped the deity through submission in
manners and morals, and the secret black family, intimate and coerced.

It is, of course, considered rude and hyperbolic to call Jefferson a
rapist. I call him that, with a sense of understatement. I think the emo¬
tional incest with his white daughters could be acted out with Sally
Hemings and was. While the Bill of Rights when it was enacted kept
the federal government from messing with Jefferson, it did nothing to
keep Jefferson from messing with Sally.

The argument against characterizing Jefferson as a rapist is essentially
this: Sally Hemings did not want freedom, and Jefferson exercised norma¬
tive power for his rank in an ordinary way. Sally Hemings’s lack of free¬
dom cannot be denied; but romantics and patriots — and woman haters
of both persuasions — want to believe that she would have chosen him if
she could have; that in the realm of sex, for women, slavery and freedom
have the same happy outcome, determined by nature, not oppression;
that desire and force travel together, necessary and harmonious compan¬
ions, each reinforcing the pull of the other. Epistemologies of desire aside,
the culture works hard to make Sally responsible and Jefferson blameless.

The Merchant- Ivory film Jefferson in Paris { 1995) continues a fictional

190 LIFE AND DEATH

tradition in which an adolescent Sally Hemings (played by Thandie
Newton) sets her sights on the master (Nick Nolte) and virtually in¬
vades his chaste bed. In Barbara Chase- Riboud’s 1979 novel, Sally Hem¬
ings , Sally describes the first time:

I felt no fear, only an overwhelming tenderness. His presence for me was
command enough; I took control of him. I bent forward and pressed a
kiss on the trembling hands that encompassed mine, and the contact of
my lips with his flesh was so violent that I lost all memory ... I felt
around me an exploding flower, not just of passion, but of long depriva¬
tion, a hunger for things forbidden, for darkness and unreason.

Jefferson calls out the name of “the other I so resembled . . . my half sis¬

ter.

In keeping with conventional misogynist ideology, the slave is the
master, even when the slave is a female child; and she is not bound by her
legal status but by her sexual nature. Chase-Riboud uses her authority as
an African-American woman and her considerable narrative skill to
argue that Hemings repudiated legal freedom, which she had in France
(where slavery was illegal), because sexual love made her a willing slave.

Steve Erickson, in his acclaimed 1993 novel, Arc d% makes desire a
higher value than freedom by emphasizing and sexualizing Jefferson’s
coercion of Sally. Erickson’s Jefifersdn is an erotic rapist, an oxymoron if
there ever was one. He ties her wrists with ribbons; he takes her from
behind; he holds her long hair in his fist and forcibly buries her face in a
pillow:

He separated and entered her. Both of them could hear the rip of her,
the wet broken plunder, a spray of blood across the tiny room. She
screamed. ... It thrilled him, the possession of her. He only wished she
were so black as not to have a face at all.

In making Sally’s rape pornographic for a contemporary audience —
she is headless, ripped, bleeding — and in making it a modern sado¬
masochistic scene as well, Erickson, a white writer, erases the institu¬
tional reality of being human chattel. Sally’s complicity, always

RACE, SEX, AND SPEECH IN AMERIKA 191

necessary as an implicit justification of the rape, takes the form of her
experiencing orgasm after several more hand-tied, violent attacks:

[W]hen she came she knew, with fury, that this was the ultimate rape,
the way he’d make her give herself not just to his pleasure but to her
own. Then he turned her over and plunged himself into her. But it was
too late. If hed intended to make his own possession of her complete,
she had also, if only for a moment, felt what it was like not to be a slave.

In other words, for a woman orgasm is freedom. Or, as Marie An¬
toinette said, “If they don’t have bread, let them eat cake.”

Max Byrd’s 1 993 novel, Jefferson , takes the position of most pre-Brodie
scholars: Jefferson could not have had sexual intercourse with Sally be¬
cause Jefferson was a hero. The logic is elliptical and cloyingly male.

The story of Jefferson’s sexual possession of his slave was first pub¬
lished in 1802, while Jefferson was president, by a political enemy. Pub¬
lished more than once, it got more checking and fact-checking than the
Washington Post and The New York Times demand now; but it was sup¬
pressed by historians who wanted Jefferson unstained, uncompromised
by miscegenation or venal exploitation. In 1873, an Ohio newspaper
printed the narrative of Madison Hemings, Sally s third son with Jeffer¬
son born at Monticello in 1805. According to Madison, Sally — who
had been sent to Paris to accompany one of Jefferson’s daughters — re¬
fused to return to Virginia with Jefferson because she wanted her legal
freedom. Still a young girl, she was nearly fluent in French. Jefferson
promised her a high place in his household and to free her children at
the age of twenty-one. Sometime before leaving France, she became
pregnant by Jefferson. Had she stayed in France she would have faced
penury, social dislocation, and the omnivorous violence of the French
Revolution. On returning to Monticello with Jefferson, she gave birth
to their first son, Tom, who physically resembled his father. One Hem¬
ings son, according to Jefferson’s legitimate white grandson, Thomas
Jefferson Randolph, “might have been mistaken for Mr. Jefferson.” Jef¬
ferson did not free Sally’s children; he let them run away, which put
them in more jeopardy than if he had freed them.

192 LIFE AND DEATH

And here is a fact with which to reckon — in the words of Brodie,
who broke the boy-historians’ covenant of silence with her careful and
thorough investigation of Jefferson’s life: Sally Hemings “was not men¬
tioned in Jefferson’s will, and after his death [in 1826] she appeared on
the official slave inventory of 1827 as worth $50. She was fifty-four.”

THE RAPIST CREATES SOCIAL REALITY:

DOMINANCE AND OPPRESSION, SPEECH AND SILENCE

Asked why Thomas Jefferson did not send the slaves who looked just
like him to another Jefferson-owned plantation Mto keep them out of
public sight,” Jefferson’s legitimate grandson answered:

Mr. Jefferson never betrayed the least consciousness of the resemblance
and although [the grandson and his mother] would have been very glad
to have them thus removed, that both and all venerated Mr. Jefferson
too deeply to broach such a topic to him. What suited him satisfied
them.

Jefferson, like a deity, created reality and imposed it on others
through what he acknowledged and what he ignored. He was known
never to discuss what he preferred to avoid — which goes to the heart of
speech and democracy, especially with respect to men and women. The
power to determine the silence of others is the power of a tyrant: a
power Jefferson and his peers had, one the Bill of Rights reified. Empir¬
ically real rights were not enunciated in the Bill of Rights; they were ar¬
ticulated in the social and sexual relations at Monticello. Jefferson’s free
speech depended on the coerced silence of his white and black subordi¬
nates: women white and black, slaves male and female. His speech re¬
quired their silence. The law itself seemed to follow nature, not to be
imposed on it: the enslaved were willing or weak or inferior or wanton;
submission must have meant love; silence was consent. What could
Sally Hemings, or Jefferson’s wife or daughters or sisters or mother, have
had to say?

The new democracy did not just exclude black slaves and white

RACE, SEX, AND SPEECH IN AMERIKA 193

women formally so that when they finally were recognized to be persons
they could be added in; the exclusion of blacks and women was the or¬
ganizing principle on which the legal system itself was built. Blacks and
women were the hidden foundation, made invisible so that white men
could continue to steal their labor and love. This was a material exile
from rights, the cruelty of which was camouflaged by a rhetoric of lib¬
erty: freedom from, not freedom to. Having speech meant having the
power to define as well as promulgate it. And what was it that the gov¬
ernment must not intrude on? Was it writing letters? reading books? —
or might it include the photograph of an Asian girl, naked, her breasts
bound in thick ropes, hanging from a tree?

Amerikan law was set up to confirm already existing power, pander
to white mens wealth, and let white men rape fourteen-year-old black
girls. Democratic rights have expanded: men of all colors are now enti¬
tled, though a double standard still prevails; it takes less wealth to be a
protected rapist; fourteen is old now; and the girls, too, can be any
color. The right-wing militias lately being scrutinized because of the
bombing of the federal building in Oklahoma City understand the
framers’ Constitution exactly. They know that rights were intended for
white men with land and guns, and that the goal was freedom from the
federal government. They hate the blacks and the women using federal
power since the sixties and spreading it everywhere, like hosts of a con¬
tagion; and it was stinkingly ugly that a woman attorney general or¬
dered the attack on the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas,
using armed federal force to wipe out a classic patriarch (guns, land,
women, children — childbearing servants). They want the framers’
country back. They want Jefferson’s power (though not his erudition):
the power to define what reality is. But they put their money on the
wrong amendment (the Second) and their faith in the wrong political
lobby (NRA). Liberals, representing themselves as advocates for women
and blacks, found the speech clause of the First Amendment more ami¬
able: they could talk the talk of equality but they did not have to walk
the walk. Naive babes in the woods, not hardened by playing soldier on
weekends, the liberals blabbed while the pornographers, snakes in the

194 LIFE AND DEATH

garden of happy talk, bought the speech clause right out from under
them. With hard cash, pornographers deployed an army of lawyers into
state and federal courts to litigate as if their sexual exploitation of
women for profit were a federally protected speech right. The ACLU,
which claims to defend civil liberties, colluded with these pimps to
shield their for-profit exploitation as “speech.”

It worked because speech is a right we all think we have. It is coun¬
terintuitive to think of speech as a negative right, freedom from : how can
a speech right be anything other than freedom toi Most of us think that
the founders’ speech implied or included or anticipated our own. Free¬
dom of speech became a progressive political beachhead, the preemi¬
nent right that implied all others. At the same time, liberals and lawyers
for the pimps could decry government interference in a culture of hos¬
tility to government — a distinctly Amerikan political hostility easy to
manipulate to virtually any purpose.

As substantive equality became harder and harder to make real for
women and African Americans, speech became a substitute for equality
and a diversion from the tough political work of redistributing power
and wealth. Speech covered up the structural wrongs in our constitu¬
tional system: its valuing of property over people; its intractable antago¬
nism to the personhood of women and blacks; and the absence of a legal
mandate to racial and sexual equality, affirmative and unequivocal.

Liberals became gutless wonders who, instead of having a material
standard for equality based on human dignity, accepted the dehuman¬
ization, humiliation, and injury of women in the sex industry as enter¬
tainment; liberals let women’s bodies become the speech of pimps, a
new chattel status — women’s bodies became pimps’ words and sen¬
tences and paragraphs, under law. The use of pornography in crimes of
violence against women was ignored; but when terrorists attacked abor¬
tion clinic doctors, New York City Planned Parenthood advertised its
discovery that “words kill” and “words are like bullets.” Patricia Ireland,
the current president of NOW, refused to denounce pornography’s role
in rape to The New York Times in a news feature on pornography and
racist hate speech; yet she was photographed carrying a sign saying

RACE, SEX, AND SPEECH IN AMERIKA 195

“Gangsta Rap Is Rape” in a demonstration. Molly Ivins, in a law school
forum, conceded that pornography “probably does harm people . . .
probably, all those ugly pictures do encourage violence against women”;
but she went on to say, “What should we do about it? Well, my answer
is, not a goddam thing. The cure for every excess of freedom of speech
is more freedom of speech.” While Ivins’s bold indifference to violence
against women is heartbreaking enough, her “excess of freedom of
speech” is a euphemism for exploited and hurt women, actual women.
If the pimps gag one, should we gag two? There’s more freedom of
speech for you.

Meanwhile, the political Right, willing to attack pornography as
obscene or indecent, will not support any policy that repudiates
pornography as male dominance. In response to feminist activism
defining pornography as an issue of equality, the political Right has in¬
creasingly committed itself to a free speech absolutism that is libertarian
and militant.

With both liberals and the political Right converging to defend
pornography, law protects money and power, consistent with the
framers’ vision: speech is defined as the photograph of an Asian girl,
naked, breasts bound in thick ropes, hanging from a tree. Ajid when
such a child is found, hung and tied just like that, dead, no one says
“words are like bullets” or even “right-to-life.”

Liberals, hearing inflammatory talk linked to abortion clinic terror¬
ism, began to reject what they called hate speech: to question just how
expressive some people had the right to be. But they had already collab¬
orated in protecting the for-profit hate of women, the brutality and ter¬
rorism of pornography, its role in rape, battery, incest, prostitution; they
had not minded the hate involved in spreading the legs of a contempo¬
rary Sally Hemings — or lynching her or beating her or raping her or
cutting her or mutilating her — for a consumer, or a million consumers,
who want photographs of the violation, now called “speech.” Ain’t no¬
body heard her voice yet.

WOMEN IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN

Sexual Harassment and Date Rape

THE PROSTITUTION PARADIGM

In the European tradition, men have tried to keep women from work¬
ing for money except as prostitutes. As with so many enduring Western
ideals, the roots of this social model can be found in the Athenian city-
state. The most protected woman was the married woman, a prisoner in
her own home, except, of course, that it was not hers, any more than the
cage belongs to the bird. She had no rights and no money. She did,
however, have responsibilities. It was her duty to submit to intercourse,
have sons, and run the house. Her virtue was maintained by keeping her
an isolated captive. She was physically confined to the house to guaran¬
tee the husband that his legal children were his biological issue.

Any woman less isolated was more collectively owned. Foreign
women taken as plunder were slaves. Adult Athenian women who were
not married were, in the main, either high-class prostitutes, social and
sexual companions to a male elite, or prisoners in brothels. The high-
class prostitutes were the only women with any real education or any
freedom of movement. The courtesan class in many societies was the so¬
cial location of women of accomplishment and foreshadowed the pro¬
fessional woman of advanced capitalism: highly educated compared

196

WOMEN IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN 197

with other women, highly skilled, she worked for money and appeared
to exercise choice.

The wife was the private woman in the private (domestic) sphere, pro¬
tected inside, legally bound there. Inside meant confinement, captivity,
isolation; high value; a reproductive as well as a sexual function; a priva¬
tized ownership. The prostitute was the public woman — publicly owned.
She lived outside the home. Outside meant the breaching of ones body by
more than one, how many and under which circumstances depending on
ones closeness to or distance from the male elite — the small, wealthy rul¬
ing class. The low-class prostitute, kept in a brothel, was outside the
bounds of human recognition: an orifice, a nonentity, used for a mass
function. Outside , money paid for acts and access. Outside , women were
for sale. Inside meant that a woman was protected from the commerce in
her kind; the value of a woman was high only when she was immune
from the contamination of a money exchange. A woman who could be
bought was cheap. This cheapness signified her low value and defined her
moral capacity. A woman was her sexual function; she was what she did;
she became what was done to her; she was what she was for. Any woman
born outside or left outside or kicked outside deserved what she got be¬
cause she was what had happened to her. For instance, the rape of a lady
stole her value from her but she was not the aggrieved party. Her husband
or her father had been injured, because the value of his property had been
destroyed. Once used, she might become the wife of the rapist, or she was
cast out, exiled to the margins, newly created common property. Rape
could create a marriage but more often it created a prostitute. The deeper
her exile, the more accessible to men she was — the more accessible, the
cheaper. This was an economic fact and an ontological axiom, status and
character determined by the degree of her sexual vulnerability. In the pub¬
lic domain by virtue of the male use of her, she became venal by male de¬
finition and design, according to male power and perception.

These zones — private and public, inside and outside — continue to
suggest a real geography of female experience under the rule of men. The
insularity of the domestic sphere for women has been treasured or hon¬
ored or valued even in poor or working-class families; a man’s honor is

198 LIFE AND DEATH

compromised or contaminated when his wife works outside the home for
money. The gender-specific exclusiveness of housework creates a literal
and symbolic synthesis between woman and house. She is wedded to it as
much as to him. The repetitive, menial work by which she is judged — her
competence, her devotion, her womanhood — establishes the house as her
indigenous habitat. Her tribe, woman, carries the housekeeping gene. By
nature, she rubs and she scrubs. The male lives out his wider life in the
wider world, a hunter (he brings home the bacon) with a biological im¬
perative to spread his sperm. He works for money by right, and with it
goes freedom of action. After work he can range over miles, bar to bar, or
library to library; he roams the big world. When finally he enters the
domicile where she belongs as a natural, unpaid worker, he is both master
and guest. He eats, he sleeps, he dirties the floor. Inside the domestic
sphere, she lives the best life for her. Too much association with the oblig¬
ations of the domestic sphere make his life too small for him. He resents
the taming of his wild nature; he will not accept the limits appropriate to
a female life. He will not do housework. He will not jack her loose from
it. Her association with the home is nativist and in the wider world,
which is his real domain, she is an unwanted alien, at best a guest worker
with a short-term visa, a stigmatized immigrant.

In the workplace, her money is seen to supplement his. He is first,
she is second. She is paid less than men are paid for the same work, if
men do the same work; she may be segregated into female-only work,
menial and low-paid. Usually, whatever her work she makes less than
her husband whatever his work. Two features of female labor are so fa¬
miliar that they seem to have all the permanence of gravity, or is it gravy
stains? — (1) she does unpaid work in the home, a lot of it, and (2) in the
marketplace she lines the bottom. This makes her poor relative to him;
this makes women poor relative to men. Women, then, can buy less
shelter, less food, less freedom than men. Women, then, need men for
money, and men require sexual access to make the exchange. Womens
poverty means that women stay sexually accessible to men, a submission
seen as natural instead of economically coerced.

The Athenian ethic prevails, however camouflaged. Working women

WOMEN IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN 199

are attached in marriage to the inside , mostly by cleaning it. The ideal is
still the isolated captive but she is increasingly honored in the breach, since
both the isolation and the captivity have been massively rejected by West¬
ern women. Ideologically, the Right continues to promote the house as the
natural, even exclusive, locus of virtue for a woman. The media, construed
to be liberal in their social advocacy, continue to insist that working for
money outside the home makes women depressed, infertile, stressed, more
prone to heart disease and earlier death, while all extant studies continue to
show the opposite (see Faludi, Backlash , Crown, 1991; Barnett and Rivers,
“The Myth of the Miserable Working Woman,” Working Woman , Febru¬
ary 1992). The Left — ever visionary — continues to caretake the pornogra¬
phy industry, making the whole wide world — street, workplace, supermar¬
ket — repellent to women. And while men use pornography to drive
women out of the workplace, civil libertarians defend it as speech (it is, in¬
deed, like “Get out, nigger”); and some ask, “Why cant a woman be more
like a man?” i.e., why cant a woman flourish in a workplace saturated with
pornography? Thus, each tried-and-true political tendency combines the
best of its theory with the best of its practice to force women out of the
workplace, back into the house, door locked from the outside. Pretending
to argue, they collude. And if one don’t get you, the other will.

And we, the women, of course, remain touchingly naive and ahistorical.
We believe that women are in the workplace to stay, even though men have
engineered massive and brutal social dislocations to keep women poor and
powerless or to return us there. In Europe, the mass slaughter of the
witches over a 300-year period was partly motivated by a desire to confis¬
cate their property, their money — to take what wealth women had. Dur¬
ing the Crusades, women took over land, money, aspects of male political
sovereignty — and were pushed out and down when the men returned. In
the United States, of course, Rosie the Riveter was pushed out of the fac¬
tory and into the suburbs, unemployed. We have been playing Giant Steps
throughout history, trying to advance on the man while his back was
turned. Each time we get an economic leg up, the man finds a way to break
our knees. Of course it will be different this time; of course. We want equal
pay for equal work and we wait, patiently, quietly; let them have one more

200 LIFE AND DEATH

war. Especially, we believe that the workplace is a gender-neutral zone, a
fair place; we believe that we leave gender behind, at home, with the polish
on the linoleum; we believe that a woman is a person, at work to work, for
money. We may wear our little skirts but we do not expect them to mean
anything, certainly not that the men will try to look up them. Even though
we know that we have had to fight bias to get the job and to get the money,
we present ourselves at work as workers, a final prayer for fairness. We have
given up on the streets; we have given up at home. But, this time, we en¬
tered the workplace after some legislative promises of fairness, and we be¬
lieve in law, we believe the promise. Our immutable assumption, synony¬
mous with our deepest hope, is that we do not go into the workplace sexed:
which means, always in our experience, as a target.

But the men, classics scholars each and every one, honor the old road
map: a woman outside, a woman in public, is more collectively owned
than a woman inside. Each woman may be bound to her husband by
the rites and rituals of domesticity, but when she crosses the periphery,
exits the door, she belongs to them that see her: a little or a lot, depend¬
ing on how the men are inclined. The eyes own her first; the gaze that
looks her up and down is the first incursion, the first public claim. The
single woman inhabits this old territory even more fully. She is pre¬
sumed to be out there looking for him, whomever — his money, his
power, his sex, his protection (from men just like him). There is virtu¬
ally no respect for a woman without a man and there is virtually no
recognition that a womans life is fully human on its own. Human free¬
dom has him as its subject, not her. Always, she is an adjunct. Her in¬
tegrity is not central to the imperative for human rights or political
rights or economic rights. And, indeed, this is what matters. It may be
all that matters. The solitary woman must incarnate for us what it
means to be human; she must signify all the dimensions of human
value; she must set the standard. The inability to conceptualize her in¬
dividuality amounts to a morbid paralysis of conscience. Without her as
a whole human being in her own right, a sovereign human being, the
predations of men against women will appear natural or justified. The
tolerance of these predations depends on the womans life being, in its

WOMEN IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN 201

essence, smaller, less significant, predetermined by the necessities of a
sexual function, that function itself formed by the requirements of male
sexual tyranny, a reductive and totalitarian set of sexual demands.

So, outside, the woman is public in male territory, a hands-on zone;
her presence there is taken to be a declaration of availability — for sex and
sexual insult. On the street, she may be verbally assaulted or physically as¬
saulted. The verbal assaults and some physical assault are endemic in the
environment, a given, an apparently inevitable emanation of the male
spirit — from the breast-oriented “Hey, momma” to, as I saw once, a man
in a suit walking rapidly down the street punching in the stomach each
young, well-dressed woman he passed — wham, bam, punch, hard, they
keeled over one after another as he barreled by them — each was incredu¬
lous even as she folded over, and he was gone before I could take in what
I had clearly seen on rush-hour crowded streets. It is a fiction that male
assaults against women are punished by law. In any woman’s life, most are
not. The casual, random violence of the stranger has nearly as much pro¬
tection as the systematic, intimate violence of the lover, husband, or fa¬
ther. None of us can stand up to all of it; we are incredulous as each new
aggression occurs. We hurry to forget. It cant have happened, we say; or
it happens all the time, we say — it is too rare to be credible or too com¬
mon to matter. We wont be believed or no one will care; or both.

In the workplace, the woman hears the beat of her unsexed heart: I am
goodzx. this, she says. She is working for money, maybe for dignity, maybe
in pursuit of independence, maybe out of a sense of vocation or ambi¬
tion. The man perceives that she is close to him, a physical and mental
proximity; under him, a political and economic arrangement that is in¬
controvertible; poorer than he is, a fact with consequences for her — he
perceives that she is in the marketplace to barter, skills for money, sexual¬
ity for advancement or advantages. Her genitals are near him, just under
that dress, in the public domain, his domain. Her lesser paycheck gives
him a concrete measure of how much more she needs, how much more
he has. In the academy, a grade is wealth. In each arena, she is a strange
woman, not his wife or daughter; and her presence is a provocation. His
presumption is a premise of patriarchy: she can be bought; her real skills

202 LIFE AND DEATH

are sexual skills; the sexuality that inheres in her is for sale or for barter
and he has a right to it anyway, a right to a rub or a lick or a fuck. Once
outside, she is in the realm of the prostituted woman. It is an economi¬
cally real realm. The poor trade sex for money, food, shelter, work, a
chance. It is a realm created by the power of men over women, a zone of
women compromised by the need for money. If she is there, he has a
right to a piece of her. It is a longstanding right. Using his power to force
her seems virile, masculine, to him, an act of civilized conquest, a natural
expression of a natural potency. His feelings are natural, indeed, in¬
evitable. His acts are natural, too. The laws of man and woman super¬
sede, surely, the regulations or conventions of the workplace.

Every regular guy, it turns out, is a sociobiologist who can explain the
need to spread the sperm — for the sake of the species. He is a philoso¬
pher of civilization, a deep thinker on the question of what women re¬
ally want — and he thinks old thoughts, rapist thoughts, slave-owning
thoughts. He thinks them deeply, without self-consciousness. He is a
keeper of tradition, a guardian of values: he punishes transgression, and
the woman outside has transgressed the one boundary established to
keep her safe from men in general, to keep her private from him. If she
was at home, as she should be, she would not be near him. If she is near
him, his question is why; and his answer is that she is making herself
available — for a price. She is there for money. The workplace is where a
woman goes to sell what she has for money. Her wages suggest that her
job skills do not amount to much. Indisputably, she is cheap.

It stuns us, this underlying assumption that we are whoring. Here we
are, on our own, at last, so proud, so stupidly proud. Here he is, a con¬
queror he thinks, a coward and a bully we think, using power to coerce
sex. We feel humiliated, embarrassed, ashamed. He feels fine. He feels
right. Manly: he feels manly. And, of course, he is.

MALE SEXUALITY

Now, I have had this experience. In my work I have described the sexual
philosophies of Kinsey, Havelock Ellis, de Sade, Tolstoy, Isaac Bashevis

WOMEN IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN 203

Singer, Freud, Robert Stoller, Norman Mailer, Henry Miller. Each has
an ethic of male entitlement to women’s bodies. Each celebrates male
sexual aggression against women as an intrinsic component of a natural,
valuable, venerable masculinity. Each suggests that women must be
conquered, taken by force; that women say no but mean yes; that forced
sex is ecstatic sex and that women crave pain.

I have written about the gynocide of the witches, one thousand years
of Chinese footbinding, serial rape and serial killing.

I have written about the misogyny in the Bible and in pornography,
about the advocacy of rape in male supremacist psychology, theology,
philosophy, about the cruelty of dominance and submission, including
in intercourse.

In every case, I have used the discourse of men as a source, without
distorting it. I have said what men say about women, about the nature of
sex, about the nature of nature. The men remain cultural heroes,
Promethean truth-tellers; surely they mean no harm. I am excoriated
(surely I mean some harm) for saying what they say but framing it in a
new frame, one that shows the consequences to women. The ones they
do it to have been left out. I put the ones they do it to back in. In expos¬
ing the hate men have for women, it is as if it becomes mine. To say what
they do is to be what they are, except that they are entitled, they are right
in what they do and what they say and how they feel. Maybe they are
tragic but they are never responsible: for being mean or cruel or stupid.
When they advocate rape, that is normal and neutral. When I say they
advocate rape, I am engaging in the equivalent of a blood libel (this is the
meaning of the “man hating” charge); I slander them as if I invented the
sadism, the brutality, the exploitation that they engage in and defend.

Now: men describe their masculinity as aggressive, essentially rapist.
Feminists have challenged the rape itself. We have agitated for changes in
law so that we can prosecute all acts of forced sex. Men continue to speak
as if we are ultimately irrelevant; they say that force is a natural part of
sex and a normal expression of masculinity. We say that force is rape.
Men continue to rationalize the use of force in intercourse as if force in¬
dicates the degree of desire, the intensity of the urge. Feminists are

204 LIFE AND DEATH

charged with hating sex (rape) because we hate forced sex. We are
charged with confusing the horrible crime of rape (rape with the most
brutality imaginable) with intercourse (which involves less force, though
how much less the men will not say), thereby making it impossible to
prosecute real rape, horrible rape (rape done by someone else) because
the force a good guy (me) might use can be confused by some nasty or
dumb woman with the worse force used by a real rapist (not me).

Until about twenty years ago, men did what they wanted and called
it what they liked. They decided all meaning and value. (Not all men
decided all meaning and value; but men, not women, decided.) They
could describe sex as conquest, violence, violation, and themselves as
rapists (without using the word), because they were never accountable
to us for what they said or did. Men were the law; men were morality;
men decided; men judged. Now we have pushed our way out from
under them, at least a little. We see them owning and naming. We have
a critical new distance. Still screwed in place as it were, we have swiveled
loose a little, and we see the face where before we only felt the heavy
breathing. We see the brow knotted in exertion, the muscles of the brain
flexing in what passes for thought: discounting us, ignoring us, ignorant
of us, celebrating rape and leaving out the cost to us. In the last two
decades, feminists have built a real political resistance to male sexual
dominance, i.e., to male ownership of the whole wide world; and it is
clear that we are not saying no because we mean yes. We mean no and
we prosecute the pigs to prove it. More and more of us do, more and
more. We prosecute and sue our fathers, lovers, bosses, doctors, friends,
as well as the ubiquitous stranger. For all our cultural brazenness, men
have learned that no might mean no because we take them to court. It
started as a rumor. The rumor spread. The bitches are really pissed.

Uses of force that men consider natural, necessary, and fair are being
confronted by women who take those same uses of force to be intolera¬
ble violations without any possible extenuation. In 1991, two events
clarified the state of conflict between male sexual hegemony and female
political resistance: Anita Hill charged Clarence Thomas with sexual ha¬
rassment; and William Kennedy Smith was prosecuted for rape.

WOMEN IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN 205

Clarence Thomas was George Bushs nominee for the Supreme Court,
an African-American conservative whose origins were rural and poor, in
the segregated South. Anita Hill was a law professor who came from the
same background. She had been Thomas’s subordinate at the EEOC, the
administrative agency responsible for pursuing complaints of sexual ha¬
rassment and other civil rights violations. In other words, Clarence
Thomas was in charge of vindicating the rights of victims. His record at
the EEOC was one of extreme lethargy. Feminists saw a relationship be¬
tween his record, a poor one, and his own behavior as alleged by Hill — he
was a perpetrator. Hill described a continuing pattern of verbal assault, es¬
pecially the recounting of pornographic movies that featured rape,
women being penetrated by animals, and large-breasted women. In one
incidence of harassment, Thomas asked who had left a pubic hair on a
Coke can. Ms. Hill could not make sense of the remark but those of us
who study pornography identified it immediately: there are films in
which women are penetrated by beverage cans. Mr. Thomas talked about
the size of his penis and his ability to give women pleasure through oral
sex. These confidences were forced on Ms. Hill in the workplace, in pri¬
vate, without witnesses. Ms. Hill was Mr. Thomas’s chosen target, a
smart, ambitious African-American woman whose future was linked with
his. In the narrow sense, their political destinies were linked. He was a fa¬
vorite of the Republicans and she could travel with him: up. In the "wider
sense, as an African-American conservative, he was pioneering the way for
other black conservatives, especially women who would follow because
they could not lead — Mr. Bush has shown no interest in even the token
empowerment of African-American women. The verbal assaults humili¬
ated Ms. Hill and pushed her face in her sexual status. They emphasized
the servility that went with being female. They put her in her place, which
was under him; in the office; in the movie; in life — her life.

Anita Hill testified before the Senate Judiciary Committee and four¬
teen white men evaded the issues her testimony raised. Right-wing sena¬
tors, with deft diagnostic skills, said she was psychotic. He was a lunatic
if he did it but he could not be a lunatic and therefore he could not have
done it. He would have to be morally degenerate to watch such films and

206 LIFE AND DEATH

he could not be morally degenerate. They sputtered trying to say what
she must be — to bring the charges. Psychotic was their kindest conclu¬
sion. Left-wing senators, presumably out to destroy Clarence Thomas
the black conservative by any means necessary, did not ask him questions
on his use of pornography, though the answers might have vindicated
Anita Hill. The topic was barely mentioned and not pursued. The claims
of sexual harassment were essentially ignored; they were buried, not ex¬
posed. Panels of women were brought forward to say that Clarence
Thomas did not sexually harass them. When I rob my neighbor, I want
all the neighbors I did not rob to be asked to testify; I am very kind to
my neighbors, except for the one I robbed. The chairman of the com¬
mittee, Democrat Joseph R. Biden Jr. from Delaware, who is sponsoring
the first federal bill to treat rape and battery as the sex-based crimes they
are (the Violence Against Women Act), said that terrible things always
come to his attention during confirmation hearings. He specifically men¬
tioned charges of wife-beating (the aforementioned “battery” of the Vio¬
lence Against Women Act). The press ignored this information; no one
demanded to know which men confirmed by the Senate Judiciary Com¬
mittee and then the whole Senate beat their wives. Clarence Thomas
himself was reported to have beaten his first wife, an African-American
woman, though she did not come forward to make the charge in public.

Clarence Thomas was confirmed and is now a sitting Supreme Court
Justice.

Mr. Bush gave several interviews in which he deplored the sexually ex¬
plicit testimony. His granddaughters, he said, could turn on the televi¬
sion and hear this dirty talk. He did not seem to mind the dirty behavior
or having institutionalized it by putting an accused pornophile on the
court that would make the law that would govern his granddaughters. If
Clarence Thomas enjoys films in which women are fucked by animals,
George Bush’s granddaughters, like the rest of us, are in trouble.

Since the fourteen white men on the Senate Judiciary Committee did
not ask, we do not know if Clarence Thomas still uses pornography. (This
presumes that he would tell the truth, which presumes a lot. He stated
under oath that he had never discussed Roe v. Wade , the decision legalizing

WOMEN IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN 207

abortion in the United States. My cat hasn’t discussed it.) Thomas’s friends
from college confirm that he used pornography when he was in law school
at Yale (1971-1974). Then, and even in the early 1980s when Anita Hill
alleges he detailed the pornographic scenarios to her, pornography showing
women being penetrated by animals was still underground. It was available
in film loops in stalls in adult bookstores and live-sex theaters. A man goes
to the prostitution-pornography pan of town; he finds the right venue; he
occupies a private stall with the film loops — women being fucked by ani¬
mals or pissed on or whipped; he keeps depositing tokens or quarters to see
the loop of film, which keeps repeating; when he leaves, someone mops up
the stall — usually he leaves semen. Clarence Thomas asserted the absolute
privacy of what he called his bedroom when one senator broached the topic
of pornography. If he used the pornography when his friends say he did, his
bedroom includes a lot of geography. That is one big bedroom. The patri¬
archal standard the Bush administration wants to defend is a familiar one: a
mans privacy includes any sexual act he wants to do to women wherever he
wants to do it; a womans privacy does not even extend to her own internal
organs. The pornography Clarence Thomas was accused of using is vi¬
ciously woman hating; it is the KKK equivalent of destroying women for
the fun of it, annihilating women for sport. The President used every re¬
source at his command to defend Thomas’s nomination. So did the right-
wing senators. The liberals sacrificed the women of this country to the
usual imperatives of male bonding. How many — left, right, or center — ha¬
rass the very low-paid, low-status women who work for them (they ex¬
empted themselves from the reach of sexual harassment laws)? How many
use pornography? How many, in fact, beat their wives?

William Kennedy Smith, thirty, a rich white man, recently graduated
from medical school, nephew of Senator Edward M. (Ted) Kennedy, was
prosecuted for rape in December 1991 . The woman who accused him was
white, his approximate age and social status, an unmarried mother of one.
They met in a chic bar in Palm Beach, Florida, Smith accompanied by his
uncle and his cousin Patrick, a Rhode Island state legislator. The woman
went with Smith to the Kennedy home in Palm Beach. (Who would not
think it safe? Which citizen would not go?) According to her, Smith tack-

208 LIFE AND DEATH

led her and forced himself on her. His defense was that she had had inter¬
course. The jury believed him and acquitted him with less than an hour of
deliberation. He had a story that was consistent; she had memory lapses.
The judge refused to allow testimony from an expert on rape trauma that
would have explained how commonplace such memory losses are in vic¬
tims of rape. The trial was televised. The woman’s face was obscured from
view. The shock to the nation, the shock to ruling-class men, the shock to
male dominance was that Mr. Smith was prosecuted at all. Feminists call
the crime date rape or acquaintance rape. In the good old days, in the
1950s and 1960s as well as in the Athenian city-state, rape was a crime of
theft; the woman belonged to a man, her husband or father; and raping
her was like breaking her, smashing a vessel, a valuable vase; the man’s
property was destroyed. Until two decades ago, men raped women and
men made and administered the laws against rape. Rape law protected the
interests of men from the aggressions of other men; it punished men for
getting out of line by taking a woman who belonged to someone else.
With the advent of the women’s movement, rape was redefined as a crime
against the woman who was raped. This seems simple but in fact it over¬
turned over two thousand years of male supremacist rape law.

In order for the crime to have happened to her, she had to be someone
(when it happened to him, she was something). In order for her to be
someone, the law had to revise its estimation of her place: from chattel to
person in her own right. As a person, then, she began to say what had hap¬
pened to her, in the courtroom but also in books, in public meetings,
among women, in the presence of men. She began to say what had hap¬
pened, where, how, who had done it, when, even why. The old law of
rape, it seemed, barely touched on the reality of rape. The crime had been
defined by male self-interest. Men had demanded as a legal standard that
women be prepared to die rather than to submit; this degree of resistance
was required to show, to prove, that she did not consent; her visible in¬
juries had to prove that she might have died, because he would have killed
her. Resisting less, she would be held responsible for whatever he had done
to her. Her testimony had to be corroborated — by witnesses or by physical
evidence so overwhelming as to be incontrovertible. The legal presump-

WOMEN IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN 209

tion was that women lied, used false rape charges to punish men. One of
the laws purposes was to protect men from vindictive women, which all
women who charged rape were presumed to be. In practice, every effort
was made to destroy any woman who prosecuted a rapist. A womans sex¬
ual history was used to indict her. The premise always has been that loose
women — prostitutes, sluts, sexually active women — could not be raped;
that the public woman was for sexual consumption however achieved, by
money or by force; that any woman who “did it” was dirt, took on the sta¬
tus of the act itself (dirty) — that she had no value the law was required to
honor or protect. If a woman could not prove her virtue, she could be
found culpable for the lack of it, which meant acquittal for the rapist. Em¬
pirically speaking, it did not matter if she had been forced to do what it
was presumed she would be happy to do anyway — even if under different
circumstances or with someone else. If the rapist s lawyer could show that
the woman had had sex — was not a virgin or a faithful wife — she was
proved worthless. No one would punish the accused, hurt his life, for what
he had done to a piece of trash — unless he needed to be punished for
some other reason, for instance, his race, or social hubris, or some other
scapegoating reason, in which case she would be used to put him away.

The reforms seemed so minor; frankly, so inadequate. We need more
and better but the changes have had an impact. Trial rules were changed
so that the woman’s past sexual history was generally inadmissible: Cor¬
roboration was no longer required — the womans testimony could stand
on its own. The procedures involved in collecting and keeping physical
evidence were scrutinized and standardized so that such evidence could
not be lost, contaminated, or tampered with. Before, evidence had been
collected in a haphazard way, giving the rapist a big headstart on an ac¬
quittal. Doctors in emergency rooms and police were trained in how to
treat rape victims, how to investigate for sexual abuse. Rape crisis cen¬
ters were created, some in hospital emergency rooms; these gave victims
expert counseling and a sympathetic peer on the victims’ side in dealing
with the police, doctors, prosecutors, in going through the ordeal of a
trial, in surviving the trauma of the event itself. In some states, the defi¬
nition of consent was changed so that, for instance, if a woman was

210 LIFE AND DEATH

drunk she could not give legal consent (rather than the old way: if she
was drunk, she had consented — to whatever would be done to her; she
deserved whatever she got). Laws that protected rape in marriage — the
right of a husband to penetrate his wife against her will, by force — were
changed so that forced intercourse in marriage could be prosecuted as
what it was: the act of rape. “But if you cant rape your wife,” protested
California state senator Bob Wilson in 1979, “who can you rape?” The
answer is: no one. And women began to sue rapists, including hus¬
bands, under civil law: to expose the crime; to get money damages. The
law remains tilted in favor of the rapist. For instance, prior convictions
for rape are not admissible as evidence. The woman still almost always
looks wrong, stupid, venal, and the prejudices against women — how
women should dress, act, talk, think — are virulent, nearly deranged by
any fair standard. Most rapists are acquitted. Usually this means that the
woman is told by a jury, as Smiths accuser was, that she had intercourse.
(In some cases, the jury acquits because it believes that the wrong man
has been apprehended; it accepts that the woman has been raped.) The
acquittal that declares she was not raped, she had intercourse, upholds
and reifies the patriarchal view of rape: a monstrous act committed by a
monster (invariably a stranger), it is an excess of violence outside the
force sanctioned in intercourse; the woman is, in fact, subjected to so
much violence that no one could interpret her submission as voluntary
or think it was at her invitation, for her pleasure. Just some violence
does not take the act out of the realm of normal intercourse for male su¬
premacists because, for them, sex is a sometimes mean dance, and ag¬
gression against the woman is just a fast and manly way of dancing.

The progress is in this: that, increasingly, incursions against women
are prosecuted as rape; that rape is now a crime against the woman her¬
self; that the use of force is enough to warrant a prosecution (if not yet a
conviction); that a date, a friend, an acquaintance, will be prosecuted
for the use of force — even if he is rich, even if he is white, even if he is a
doctor, even if his family is powerful and lionized. And the progress is
also in this: that a woman could go out, outside, past the periphery, at
night, to a bar, chat with men, drink — a woman who had been sexually

WOMEN IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN 211

abused as a child, who had worked for an escort service, who had had
three abortions — and still, force used against her was taken to be rape —
by prosecutors, hard-asses who do not like to lose.

Feminists have achieved what amounts to a vast redefinition of rape
based on womens experience of how, when, and where we are raped —
also, by whom; and we have achieved a revised valuation of the rape vic¬
tim — someone, not something. Male society, once imperial in its author¬
ity over women and rape, having operated on the absolutist principle of
the divine right of kings, has not taken the change with good grace.

“Feminists,” says the right-wing National Review (January 20, 1992),
“have attempted to strengthen the likelihood of conviction by inventing
the concept of ‘date rape,’ which means not simply rape committed by
an escort, but any sexual contact that a woman subsequently regrets.”
Regret, then, not force, is the substance of this charge we thought up;
Pied Piper-like, we lead and the little children — the police, district at¬
torneys — charmed by our music, follow.

Neo-con writer Norman Podhoretz claims that date rape does not
exist; that feminists, in order to make men sexually dysfunctional, are
putting unfair, unnatural, unreasonable constraints on masculinity. There
is “a masculine need to conquer,” an “ever restless masculine sex drive,” in
conflict with the “much more quiescent erotic impulses” of women ( Com¬
mentary October 1991) — we don’t push and shove? In other words, so-
called date rape is, in fact, normal intercourse using normal force, misun¬
derstood by women who are misled by feminists into thinking they have
been forced (raped) when they have just been fucked (forced). Mr. Pod¬
horetz singles me out as a particularly noxious example of a feminist who
repudiates women’s being force-fucked, call it what you will; I am inde¬
cent, castrating, and man hating in my refusal to accept male force and
male conquest as a good time. The liberal Tikkun praises Mr. Podhoretz
for trying to oflf me; then, with dim logic but shining arrogance, claims
that “the psychic undergirding of so much neo-conservatism” has been
“the fear of womens power, the fear that women’s wishes and desires may
have to be given equal weight with those of men” (November/ December
1991). Ain’t I a woman? What undergirds Tikkuril

212 LIFE AND DEATH

In The Wall Street Journal (June 27, 1991), Berkeley professor Neil
Gilbert, a very angry man, seriously undergirded, claims that we lie about
rape as a way of lying about men. In particular, we lie about the frequency
of rape. We make up statistics in order to “broadcast a picture of college
life that resembles the world of ‘Thelma and Louise,' in which four out of
six men are foul brutes and the other two are slightly simpleminded.” We
do this because we have a secret agenda: “to change social perceptions of
what constitutes acceptable intimate relations between men and women
. . . It is an effort to reduce the awesome complexity of intimate discourse
between the sexes to the banality of no* means ‘no.’ ” Actually, being force-
fucked is pretty banal. Didn't Hannah Arendt write a book about that?

“The awesome complexity” of getting a woman drunk to fuck her
has lost some ground, since if a woman is drugged she is held incapable
of consent in some states.

“The awesome complexity” of owning her body outright in marriage
has lost ground because marital rape is now criminalized in some states.

“The awesome complexity” of driving a woman into prostitution
through forced sex, however, holds its ground, it seems, since incest or
other child sexual abuse appears to be a precondition for prostitution and
prostitution thrives. Claiming that date rape — rape defined from women's
experience of sexual coercion at the hands of an acquaintance — has created
a “phantom epidemic of sexual assault” ( The Public Interest, spring 1991),
Mr. Gilbert opposes funding rape crisis centers on college campuses. A
press release for Mr. Gilbert proudly states: “In a similar vein four years
ago, Gilbert criticized sexual abuse prevention training for small children.
Partly as a result of Gilbert's research, Governor Deukmejian last year can¬
celed all state funding for the school-based prevention programs.” The
awesome simplicity of Mr. Gilbert’s public discourse is more venal than
banal: neither women nor children should have any recourse; keep the
rapist s discourse awesome by keeping the victim helpless and silent.

Male hysteria over date rape (its recognition, stigmatization, punish¬
ment) was especially provoked in the media by date-rape charges on col¬
lege campuses: where boys become men. Outstanding numbers of
young women said that boys could not become men on them; by coerc-

WOMEN IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN 213

ing them. Take Back the Night marches and speak-outs proliferated.
Women named rapists and reported rapes, though college administra¬
tors mostly backed up male privilege. Even gang rapes rarely got a
penalty more punishing than the penalty for plagiarism. At Brown Uni¬
versity, women wrote the names of male students who had coerced
them on the walls of womens bathrooms. To men, First Amendent ab¬
solutists in defense of pornography, this suggested a logical limit on free
speech. It seemed clear to them. In a slyly misogynist profile of an actual
date rape at Dartmouth College, Harper's (April 1991) characterized
student activism against rape this way: “Sexual-abuse activists are hold¬
ing workshops to help students recast the male psyche.”

Indeed, male rage against date-rape charges originated in the convic¬
tion that men had a right to the behaviors constituting the assaults; but
also, that manly behavior, manhood itself, required the use of force, with
aggression as the activating dynamic. The redefinition of rape based on
womens experience of being forced is taken by men to be a subversion of
their right to live peaceably and well-fucked, on their own terms. “The
trend in this complicated arena of sexual politics is definitely against us,
gentlemen,” warns Playboys Asa Baber (September 1991). “A lynch mob
could be just outside your door. In William Kennedy Smith’s case, a
lynch mob has already placed the rope around his neck.” Well, hardly.
The boy had the best due process money could buy.

Men cannot live without rape, say these organs, so to speak, of male
power. Men cannot be men without using some force, some aggression,
or without having the right to use some force, some aggression. Men
need rape, or the right to rape, to be men. Taking away the right to rape
emasculates men. The charge of date rape is an effort to unsex men.

This male rage also derives from the perception that college-age women
experience what used to be normal, sanctioned coercion as rape — real
rape. These charges are not ideological. They do not come from the first
generation of this wave’s feminists, the sadder-but-wiser flower children
who wondered why all the peace-now men pushed and shoved and what it
meant. Male aggression is being experienced by young women now as vi¬
olation. The pushing and shoving is taken to be hostile and unfair, wrong

214 LIFE AND DEATH

and rotten. This is proof of feminisms success in articulating the real ex¬
periences of women, so long buried in an imposed silence. We older ones
looked at our lives — the forced sex that was simply part of what it meant
to be a woman, the circumstances under which the force occurred, who he
was (rarely the famous stranger). Male lies all around us celebrated force as
romantic rape; male laws protected force used against women in rape and
battery; in this very unfriendly world we enunciated, at risk and in pain,
the meaning of our own experience. We called it rape. The younger
women vindicate us. They are not bewildered as we were — stunned by
how ordinary and commonplace it is. They are not intimidated by the
rapist, who can be any man, any time, any place. They are traumatized by
the force, as we were. The unwanted invasion repels them, as it did us. But
we were quiet, during and after. The rapes were covered over by so much
time, so many desperate smiles. The younger women know what date rape
is. They publicly charge it, publish it, prosecute it, because it is the truth.
And, as the angry men know, these young women are the future.

The male strategy in undermining the claim is simple, rapelike verbal
attacks on women as such: on the inherent capacity of women to say what
we mean, to know what has happened, to say anything true. The old rape
jurisprudence protected men from rape charges by so-called vindictive
women (any woman they might know). To undermine the validity of
date rape, male supremacists claim that all women are vindictive women;
that date rape is a vindictive social fantasy, a collective hysteria, invented
by that mass of vindictive women, feminists. The whole political spec¬
trum, gendered male, claims that women are emotional illiterates (hereto¬
fore the province of men; see, they can learn to give up territory). National
Review defined date rape as any sex that a woman later regretted. Over a
year earlier, Playboy (October 1 990) made the same charge (in an article
penned by a woman, Playboy-sxy\e, to break our hearts): “. . . the new def¬
inition of rape gives women a simple way of thinking about sex that ex¬
ternalizes guilt, remorse or conflict. Bad feelings after sex become some¬
one else’s fault. A sexual encounter is transformed into a one-way event in
which the woman has no stake, no interest and no active role.” Actually,
the rapist defines the womans role (the very essence of rape) and it is

WOMEN IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN 215

about time that the guilt was externalized. He can have the remorse, too.
We can share the conflict. Playboys prolonged propaganda campaign
against date rape predates the mainstream backlash — usually the verbiage
is in unsigned editorial copy, not written by the token girl. Playboy has the
political role of developing the misogynist program that is then assimi¬
lated, one hand typing, into news journals left: and right. The point of
view is the same. National Review or Playboy , with the left political maga¬
zines paying better lip service (for women who like that sort of thing) to
feminist sensibilities while ripping us apart by critiquing our so-called ex¬
cesses. Underlying virtually all of the date-rape critiques is the conviction
that women simply cannot face having had consensual sex. A genetic pu-
ritanism (it travels with the housekeeping gene) makes us sorry all the
time; and when we are sorry we retaliate — we call it date rape, sexual ha¬
rassment, we tear the pornography off the walls. Any way one looks at it,
these boys ain’t great lovers. Women are not left quivering, begging for
more (waiting by the phone for his call). The old-type vindictive woman
used to want the man to stay but he left; she retaliated for being betrayed
or abandoned. The new vindictive woman — on college campuses, for in¬
stance — can’t get far enough away from him; she appears to retaliate be¬
cause he has shown up. Surely, this is different. Male privilege seems to be
at stake here, not any woman’s sense of regret. (That is a different girls’
club. Men one wants to sleep with can be bastards, too.) Regret tends to
be an identifiable emotion, one even dumb women (a redundancy in the
male-supremacist lexicon) can recognize. It has taken us longer to identify
garden-variety rape because use of us against our will was so protected for
so long. Now we know what it is; and so will he. Count on it.

Date rape and sexual harassment have emerged together — in 1991
because of the coincidence of Anita Hill’s charges against Clarence
Thomas and the prosecution for rape of William Kennedy Smith; polit¬
ically because each challenges men’s right to have sexual access to
women who are not hidden away, to women who are out and about.
Both date rape and sexual harassment were, as Gloria Steinem says, just
life — until women turned them into crimes. Each is defended as essen¬
tial masculine practice, necessary to the expression of male sexuality —

216 LIFE AND DEATH

he chases, he conquers. The proscribing of each is repudiated by those
who defend rapist sexuality as synonymous with male sexuality.
“Enough is enough,” writes Playboys hired girl, this time on sexual ha¬
rassment (February 1991). “An aggressively vehement sexual-harass¬
ment policy, whether in the workplace, on campus or in high school,
spreads a message that there is something intrinsically evil about male
sexuality. It preaches that men must keep their reactions (and their erec¬
tions) bottled up tightly, that any remnant of that sexuality (in the form
of a look, a comment, a gesture, even a declaration of interest) is poten¬
tially dangerous, hurtful, and now, criminal.” (A bottle is fine; in high
schools they can be found in the chemistry lab.) Sexual harassment laws
and policies are gender-neutral, in keeping with a basic ethic of contem¬
porary United States law. The existence of the laws and policies does not
indict men; but the frenzied repudiation does indict men — it is a male
supremacist repudiation of conscience, fairness, and, of course, equality.
Some feminists say “please.” Some feminists say “put up or shut up.”
But it is the defenders of male privilege who say that it is the nature of
men to aggress against women; that male sexuality requires such aggres¬
sion. It is the defenders of male privilege who say that male sexuality is
essentially rapist. Feminists say that laws against date rape and sexual
harassment are fair laws. No man of conscience will use force against a
woman nor will he use his power to harass, pursue, humiliate, or “have”
her. Men raised in a rapist culture, in conflict with it but also having in¬
ternal conflict, wanting to be fair, wanting to honor equality, will not
want to rape or to sexually harass; these laws will set standards and show
the way. It was good of us, and generous, to pursue remedies in a prin¬
cipled way, without shedding blood. These things have been done to us.
They will stop.

But Thomas was confirmed and Smith was acquitted. Now the ques¬
tion is: how do we nail them? Think.

ISRAEL

Whose Country Is It Anyway?

Its mine. We can put the question to rest. Israel belongs to me. Or so
I was raised to believe.

IVe been planting trees there since I can remember. I have memories
of my mothers breast — of hunger (she was sick and weak); of having
my tonsils out when I was two and a half — of the fear and the wallpaper
in the hospital; of infantile bad dreams; of early childhood abandon¬
ment; of planting trees in Israel. Understand: I’ve been planting trees in
Israel since before I actually could recognize a real tree from life. In
Camden where I grew up we had cement. I thought the huge and splen¬
did telephone pole across the street from our brick row house was one —
a tree; it just didn’t have leaves. I wasn’t deprived: the wires were awe¬
some. If I think of “tree” now, I see that splintery dead piece of lumber
stained an uneven brown with its wild black wires stretched out across
the sky. I have to force myself to remember that a tree is frailer and
greener, at least prototypically, at least in temperate zones. It takes an act
of adult will to remember that a tree grows up into the sky, down into
the ground, and a telephone pole, even a magnificent one, does not.

Israel, like Camden, didn’t have any trees. We were cement; Israel was
desert. They needed trees, we didn’t. The logic was that we lived in the
United States where there was an abundance of everything, even trees;

217

218 LIFE AND DEATH

in Israel there was nothing. So we had to get them trees. In synagogue
we would be given folders: white paper, heavy, thick; blue ink, light,
reminiscent of green but not green. White and blue were the colors of
Israel. You opened the folder and inside there was a tree printed in light
blue. The tree was full, round, almost swollen, a great arc, lush,
branches coming from branches, each branch growing clusters of leaves.
In each cluster of leaves, we had to put a dime. We could use our own
dimes from lunch money or allowances, but they only went so far; so we
had to ask relatives, strangers, the policeman at the school crossing, the
janitor at school — anyone who might spare a dime, because you had to
fill your folder and then you had to start another one and fill that too.
Each dime was inserted into a little slit in the folder right in the cluster
of leaves so each branch ended up being weighed down with shining
dimes. When you had enough dimes, the tree on the folder looked as if
it was growing dimes. This meant you had collected enough money to
plant a tree in Israel, your own tree. You put your name on the folder
and in Israel they would plant your tree and put your name on it. You
also put another name on the folder. You dedicated the tree to someone
who had died. This tree is dedicated to the memory of. Jewish families
were never short on dead people but in the years after my birth, after
1 946, the dead overwhelmed the living. You touched the dead wherever
you turned. You rubbed up against them; it didn’t matter how young
you were. Mass graves; bones; ash; ovens; numbers on forearms. If you
were Jewish and alive, you were — well, almost — rare. You had a solitary
feeling even as a child. Being alive felt wrong. Are you tired of hearing
about it? Don’t be tired of it in front of me. It was new then and I was a
child. The adults wanted to keep us from becoming morbid, or anxious,
or afraid, or different from other children. They told us and they didn’t
tell us. They told us and then they took it back. They whispered and let
you overhear, then they denied it. Nothings wrong. You’re safe here, in
the United States. Being a Jew is, well, like being an Amerikan: the best.
It was a great secret they tried to keep and tried to tell at the same time.
They were adults — they still didn’t believe it really. You were a child;
you did.

ISRAEL 219

My Hebrew school teachers were of two kinds: bright-eyed Jewish
men from New Jersey, the suburbs mostly, and Philadelphia, a center of
culture — mediocre men, poor teachers, their aspirations more bour¬
geois than Talmudic; and survivors from ancient European ghettos by
way of Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen — multilingual, learned, spectral,
walleyed. None, of course, could speak Hebrew. It was a dead language,
like Latin. The new Israeli project of speaking Hebrew was regarded as
an experiment that could only fail. English would be the language of Is¬
rael. It was only a matter of time. Israel was the size of New Jersey. Israel
was a miracle, a great adventure, but it was also absolutely familiar.

The trick in dedicating your tree was to have an actual name to write
on your folder and know who the person was to you. It was important
to Amerikan Jews to seem normal and other people knew the names of
their dead. We had too many dead to know their names; mass murder
was erasure. Immigrants to the United States had left sisters, brothers,
mothers, aunts, uncles, cousins behind, and they had been slaughtered.
Where? When? It was all blank. My fathers parents were Russian immi¬
grants. My mothers were Hungarian. My grandparents always refused
to talk about Europe. “Garbage,” my fathers father said to me, “they’re
all garbage.” He meant all Europeans. He had run away from Russia at
fifteen — from the Czar. He had brothers and sisters, seven; I never
could find out anything else. They were dead, from pogroms, the’ Russ¬
ian Revolution, Nazis; they were gone. My grandparents on each side
ran away for their own reasons and came here. They didn’t look back.
Then there was this new genocide, new even to Jews, and they couldn’t
look back. There was no recovering what had been lost, or who. There
couldn’t be reconciliation with what couldn’t be faced. They were alive
because they were here; the rest were dead because they were there: who
could face that? As a child I observed that Christian children had lots of
relatives unfamiliar to me, very old, with honorifics unknown to me —
great-aunt, great-great-grandmother. Our family began with my grand¬
parents. No one came before them; no one stood next to them. It’s an
incomprehensible and disquieting amnesia. There was Eve; then there is
a harrowing blank space, a tunnel of time and nothing with enormous

220 LIFE AND DEATH

murder; then there’s us. We had whoever was in the room. Everyone
who wasn’t in the room was dead. All my mourning was for them — all
my trees in the desert — but who were they? My ancestors aren’t individ¬
ual to me: I’m pulled into the mass grave for any sense of identity or
sense of self. In the small world I lived in as a child, the consciousness
was in three parts: (1) in Europe with those left behind, the dead, and
how could one live with how they had died, even if why was old and fa¬
miliar; (2) in the United States, the best of all possible worlds — being
more-Amerikan-than-thou, more middle-class however poor and strug¬
gling, more suburban however urban in origins, more normal, more
conventional, more conformist; and (3) in Israel, in the desert, with the
Jews who had been ash and now were planting trees. I never planted a
tree in Camden or anywhere else for that matter. All my trees are in Is¬
rael. I was taught that they had my name on them and that they were
dedicated to the memory of my dead.

One day in Hebrew school I argued in front of the whole class with
the principal; a teacher, a scholar, a survivor, he spoke seven languages
and I don’t know which camps he was in. In private, he would talk to
me, answer my questions, unlike the others. I would see him shaking,
alone; I’d ask why; he would say sometimes he couldn’t speak, there
were no words, he couldn’t say words, even though he spoke seven lan¬
guages; he would say he had seen things; he would say he couldn’t sleep,
he hadn’t slept for nights or weeks. I knew he knew important things. I
respected him. Usually I didn’t respect my teachers. In front of the
whole class, he told us that in life we had the obligation to be first a Jew,
second an Amerikan, third a human being, a citizen of the world. I was
outraged. I said it was the opposite. I said everyone was first a human
being, a citizen of the world — otherwise there would never be peace,
never an end to nationalist conflicts and racial persecutions. Maybe I
was eleven. He said that Jews had been killed throughout history pre¬
cisely because they thought the way I did, because they put being Jews
last; because they didn’t understand that one was always first a Jew — in
history, in the eyes of the world, in the eyes of God. I said it was the op¬
posite: only when everyone was human first would Jews be safe. He said

ISRAEL 221

Jews like me had had the blood of other Jews on their hands throughout
history; that had there been an Israel, Jews would not have been slaugh¬
tered throughout Europe; that the Jewish homeland was the only hope
for Jewish freedom. I said that was why one had an obligation to be an
Amerikan second, after being a human being, a citizen of the world: be¬
cause only in a democracy without a state religion could religious mi¬
norities have rights or be safe or not be persecuted or discriminated
against. I said that if there was a Jewish state, anyone who wasn’t Jewish
would be second-class by definition. I said we didn’t have a right to do
to other people what had been done to us. More than anyone, we knew
the bitterness of religious persecution, the stigma that went with being a
minority. We should be able to see in advance the inevitable conse¬
quences of having a state that put us first; because then others were sec¬
ond and third and fourth. A theocratic state, I said, could never be a fair
state — and didn’t Jews need a fair state? If Jews had had a fair state
wouldn’t Jews have been safe from slaughter? Israel could be a begin¬
ning: a fair state. But then it couldn’t be a Jewish state. The blood of
Jews, he said, would be on my hands. He walked out. I don’t think he
ever spoke to me again.

You might wonder if this story is apocryphal or how I remember it or
how someone so young made such arguments. The last is simple: the
beauty of a Jewish education is that you learn how to argue if you pay at¬
tention. I remember because I was so distressed by what he said to me:
the blood of Jews will be on your hands. I remember because he meant
what he said. Part of my education was in having teachers who had seen
too much death to argue for the fun of it. I could see the blood on my
hands if I was wrong; Jews would have nowhere; Jews would die. I could
see that if I or anyone made it harder for Israel to exist, Jews might die. I
knew that Israel had to succeed, had to work out. Every single adult Jew
I knew wanted it, needed it: the distraught ones with the numbers on
their arms; the immigrant ones who had been here, not there; the cheer¬
ful more-Amerikan-than-thou ones who wanted ranch houses for them¬
selves, an army for Israel. Israel was the answer to near extinction in a real
world that had been demonstrably indifferent to the mass murder of the

222 LIFE AND DEATH

Jews. It was also the only way living Jews could survive having survived.
Those who had been here, not there, by immigration or birth, would
create another here, a different here, a purposeful sanctuary, not one
stumbled on by random good luck. Those who were alive had to find a
way to deal with the monumental guilt of not being dead: being the cho¬
sen this time for real. The building of Israel was a bridge over bones; a
commitment to life against the suicidal pull of the past. How can I live
with having lived? I will make a place for Jews to live.

I knew from my own urgent effort to try to understand racism —
from the Nazis to the situation I lived in, hatred of black people in the
United States, the existence of legal segregation in the South — that Is¬
rael was impossible: fundamentally wrong, organized to betray egalitar¬
ian aspirations — because it was built from the ground up on a racial de¬
finition of its desired citizen; because it was built from the ground up on
exclusion, necessarily stigmatizing those who were not Jews. Social
equality was impossible unless only Jews lived there. With hostile neigh¬
bors and a racial paradigm for the states identity, Israel had to become
either a fortress or a tomb. I didn’t think it made Jews safer. I did under¬
stand that it made Jews different: different from the pathetic creatures
on the trains, the skeletons in the camps; different; indelibly different. It
was a great relief — to me too — to be different from the Jews in the cat¬
tle cars. Different mattered. As long as it lasted, I would take it. And if
Israel ended up being a tomb, a tomb was better than unmarked mass
graves for millions all over Europe — different and better. I made my
peace with different; which meant I made my peace with the State of Is¬
rael. I would not have the blood of Jews on my hands. I wouldn’t help
those who wanted Israel to be a place where more Jews died by saying
what I thought about the implicit racism. It was shameful, really: dis¬
tance me. Lord, from those pitiful Jews; make me new. But it was real
and even I at ten, eleven, twelve needed it.

You might notice that all of this had nothing to do with Palestinians.

I didn’t know there were any. Also, I haven’t mentioned women. I knew
they existed, formally speaking; Mrs. So-and-So was everywhere, of
course — peculiar, all held in, reticent and dutiful in public. I never saw

ISRAEL 223

one I wanted to become. Nevertheless, adults kept threatening that one
day I had to be one. Apparently it was destiny and also hard work; you
were born one but you also had to become one. Either you mastered ex¬
ceptionally difficult and obscure rules too numerous and onerous to re¬
veal to a child, even a child studying Leviticus; or you made one mis¬
take, the nature of which was never specified. But politically speaking,
women didn’t exist, and frankly, as human beings women didn’t exist ei¬
ther. You could live your whole life among them and never know who
they were.

I was taught about fedayeen : Arabs who crossed the border into Israel
to kill Jews. In the years after Hitler, this was monstrous. Only some¬
one devoid of any humanity, any conscience, any sense of decency or
justice could kill Jews. They didn’t live there; they came from some¬
where else. They killed civilians by sneak attack; they didn’t care whom
they killed just so they killed Jews.

I realized only as a middle-aged adult that I was raised to have preju¬
dice against Arabs and that the prejudice wasn’t trivial. My parents were
exceptionally conscious and conscientious about racism and religious
bigotry — all the homegrown kinds — hatred of blacks or Catholics, for
instance. Their pedagogy was very brave. They took a social stance
against racism, for civil rights, that put them in opposition to many
neighbors and members of our family. My mother put me in a car and
showed me black poverty. However poor I thought we were, I was to re¬
member that being black in the United States made you poorer. I still
remember a conversation with my father in which he told me he had
racist feelings against blacks. I said that was impossible because he was
for civil rights. He explained the kinds of feelings he had and why they
were wrong. He also explained that as a teacher and then later a guid¬
ance counselor he worked with black children and he had to make sure
his racist feelings didn’t harm them. From my father I learned that hav¬
ing these feelings didn’t justify them; that “good” people had bad feel¬
ings and that didn’t make the feelings any less bad; that dealing with
racism was a process, something a person tangled with actively. The

224 LIFE AND DEATH

feelings were wrong and a “good” person took responsibility for facing
them down. I was also taught that just because you feel something
doesn’t make it true. My parents went out of their way to say “some
Arabs,” to emphasize that there were good and bad people in every
group; but in fact my education in the Jewish community made that
caveat fairly meaningless. Arabs were primitive, uncivilized, violent.
(My parents would never have accepted such characterizations of
blacks.) Arabs hated and killed Jews. Really, I learned that Arabs were ir¬
redeemably evil. In all my travels through life, which were extensive, I
never knew any Arabs: and ignorance is the best friend of prejudice.

In my mid-thirties I started reading books by Palestinians. These
books made me understand that I was misinformed. I had had a fine
enough position on the Palestinians — or perhaps I should say “the Pales¬
tinian question” to convey the right ring of condescension — once I knew
they existed; long after I was eleven. Maybe twenty years ago, I knew
they existed. I knew they were being wronged. I was for a two-state solu¬
tion. Over the years, I learned about Israeli torture of Palestinian prison¬
ers; I knew Jewish journalists who purposefully suppressed the informa¬
tion so as not to “hurt” the Jewish state. I knew the human rights of
Palestinians in ordinary life were being violated. Like my daddy, on social
issues, the policy questions, I was fine for my kind. These opinions put
me into constant friction with the Jewish community, including my
family, many friends, and many Jewish feminists. As far as I know, from
my own experience, the Jewish community has just recently — like last
Tuesday — really faced the facts — the current facts. I will not argue about
the twisted history, who did what to whom when. I will not argue about
Zionism except to say that it is apparent that I am not a Zionist and
never was. The argument is the same one I had with my Hebrew school
principal; my position is the same — either we get a fair world or we keep
getting killed. (I have also noticed, in the interim, that the Cambodians
had Cambodia and it didn’t help them much. Social sadism takes many
forms. What can’t be imagined happens.) But there are social policy
questions and then there is the racism that lives in individual hearts and
minds as a prejudgment on a whole people. You believe the stereotypes;

ISRAEL 225

you believe the worst; you accept a caricature such that members of the
group are comic or menacing, always contemptible. I don’t believe that
Amerikan Jews raised as I was are free of this prejudice. We were taught
it as children and it has helped the Israeli government justify in our eyes
what they have done to the Palestinians. We’ve been blinded, not just by
our need for Israel or our loyalty to Jews but by a deep and real prejudice
against Palestinians that amounts to race-hate.

The land wasn’t empty, as I was taught: oh yes, there are a few no¬
madic tribes but they don’t have homes in the normal sense — not like
we do in New Jersey; there are just a few uneducated, primitive, dirty
people there now who don’t even want a state. There were people and
there were even trees — trees destroyed by Israeli soldiers. The Palestini¬
ans are right when they say the Jews regarded them as nothing. I was
taught they were nothing in the most literal sense. Taking the country
and turning it into Israel, the Jewish state, was an imperialist act. Jews
find any such statement incomprehensible. How could the near-dead,
the nearly extinguished, a people who were ash have imperialized any¬
one, anything? Well, Israel is rare: Jews, nearly annihilated, took the
land and forced a very hostile world to legitimize the theft. I think
Amerikan Jews cannot face the fact that this is one act — the one act — of
imperialism, of conquest that we support. We helped; we’re proud of it;
here we stand. This is a contradiction of every idea we have about who
we are and what being a Jew means. It is also true. We took a country
from the people who lived there; we the dispossessed finally did it to
someone else; we said, they’re Arabs, let them go somewhere Arab.
When Israelis say they want to be judged by the same standards applied
to the rest of the world, not by a special standard for Jews, in part they
mean that this is the way of the world. It may be a first for Jews, but
everyone else has been doing it throughout recorded history. It is
recorded history. I grew up in New Jersey, the size of Israel; not so long
ago, it belonged to Indians. Because Amerikan Jews refuse to face pre¬
cisely this one fact — we took the land — Amerikan Jews cannot afford to
know or face Palestinians: initially, even that they existed.

As for the Palestinians, I can only imagine the humiliation of losing

226 LIFE AND DEATH

to, being conquered by, the weakest, most despised, most castrated peo¬
ple on the face of the earth. This is a feminist point about manhood.

When I was growing up, the only time I heard about equality of the
sexes was when I was taught to love and have fidelity to the new State of
Israel. This new state was being built on the premise that men and
women were equal in all ways. According to my teachers, servility was
inappropriate for the new Jew, male or female. In the new state, there
was no strong or weak or more or less valuable according to sex. Every¬
one did the work: physical labor, menial labor, cooking — there was no,
as we say now, sex-role stereotyping. Because everyone worked, every¬
one had an equal responsibility and an equal say. Especially, women
were citizens, not mothers.

Strangely, this was the most foreign aspect of Israel. In New Jersey, we
didn't have equality of the sexes. In New Jersey, no one thought about it
or needed it or wanted it. We didn't have equality of the sexes in He¬
brew school. It didn’t matter how smart or devout you were: if you were
a girl, you weren’t allowed to do anything important. You weren’t al¬
lowed to want anything except marriage, even if you were a talented
scholar. Equality of the sexes was something they were going to have in
the desert with the trees; we couldn’t send them any because we didn’t
have any. It was a new principle for a new land and it helped to make a
new people; in New Jersey, we didn’t have to be quite that new.

When I was growing up, Israel was also basically socialist. The kib¬
butzim, voluntary collectives, were egalitarian communities by design.
The kibbutzim were going to replace the traditional nuclear family as
the basic social unit in the new society. Children would be raised by the
whole community — they wouldn’t “belong” to their parents. The com¬
munal vision was the cornerstone of the new country.

Here, women were pretty invisible, and material greed, a desire for
middle-class goods and status, animated the Jewish community. Israel
really repudiated the values of Amerikan Jews — somehow the adults
managed to venerate Israel while in their own lives transgressing every
radical value the new state was espousing. But the influence on the chil¬
dren was probably very great. I don’t think it is an accident that Jewish

ISRAEL 227

children my age grew up wanting to make communal living a reality or
believing that it could be done; or that the girls did eventually deter¬
mine, in such great numbers, to make equality of the sexes the dynamic
basis of our political lives.

While women in the United States were living in a twilight world,
appendages to men, housewives, still the strongest women I knew when
I was a child worked for the establishment, well-being, and preservation
of the State of Israel. It was perhaps the only socially sanctioned field of
engagement. My Aunt Helen, for instance, the only unmarried, work¬
ing woman I knew as a child, made Israel her life’s cause. Not only did
the strong women work for Israel, but women who weren’t visibly
strong — who were conformist — showed some real backbone when they
were active on behalf of Israel. The equality of the sexes may have had a
resonance for them as adults that it couldn’t have had for me as a child.
Later, Golda Meir’s long tenure as prime minister made it seem as if the
promise of equality was being delivered on. She was new, all right;
forged from the old, visibly so, but herself made new by an act of will;
public, a leader of a country in crisis. My Aunt Helen and Golda Meir
were a lot alike: not defined in terms of men; straightforward when
other women were coy; tough; resourceful; formidable. The only formi¬
dable women I saw were associated with and committed to Israel, except
for Anna Magnani. But that’s another story.

Finally in 1988, at forty-two, on Thanksgiving, the day we celebrate
having successfully taken this land from the Indians, I went to Is¬
rael for the first time. I went to a conference billed as the First Interna¬
tional Jewish Feminist Conference. Its theme was the empowerment of
Jewish women. Its sponsors were the American Jewish Congress, the
World Jewish Congress, and the Israel Women’s Network, and it was
being organized with a middle-class agenda by middle-class women,
primarily Amerikan, who were themselves beholden to the male leader¬
ship of the sponsoring groups. So the conference looked to secular Is¬
raeli feminists organizing at the grassroots level — and so it was. Initially,
the secular Israeli feminists intended to organize an alternate feminist

228 LIFE AND DEATH

conference to repudiate the establishment feminist conference, but they
decided instead to have their own conference, one that included Pales¬
tinian women, the day after the establishment conference ended.

The establishment conference was designed not to alienate Orthodox
Jewish women. As far as I could see, secular Jewish women, especially Is¬
raelis, were expendable. What the hell? They could be counted on to
keep working — keep those battered womens shelters going, keep those
rape crisis centers open — without being invited into the hotel. They
couldn’t afford to come anyway. The wealthier excluded the poor and
struggling; the timid (mainstream) excluded the grassroots (really main¬
stream but as socially invisible and despised as the women they represent
and serve); the religious excluded the secular; Jewish excluded Palestin¬
ian; and, to a considerable degree, Amerikans, by virtue of their money
and control of the agenda, excluded Israelis — feminists, you know, the
ones who do the work in the country, on the ground. Lesbians were ex¬
cluded until the last minute by not being specifically included; negotia¬
tions with those organizing what came to be called the post-conference
put a lesbian on the program speaking as such, though under a pseudo¬
nym because she was Israeli and it was too dangerous for her to be
known by her real name. War-and-peace issues were underplayed, even
as the establishment conference was held in the occupied West Bank;
even though many feminists — organizers and theorists — consider both
militarism and masculinity feminist issues — intrinsically feminist, not
attached to the agenda because of a particular political emergency.

I went because of grassroots Israeli feminists: the opportunity to meet
with them in Haifa, Tel Aviv, and Jerusalem; to talk with those organiz¬
ing against violence against women on all fronts; to learn more about
the situation of women in Israel. I planned to stay on — if I had, I also
would have spoken at and for the rape crisis center in Jerusalem. In
Haifa, where both Phyllis Chesler and I spoke to a packed room (which
included Palestinian women and some young Arab men) on child cus¬
tody and pornography in the United States, women were angry about
the establishment conference — its tepid feminist agenda, its exclusion
of the poor and of Palestinian feminists. One woman, maybe in her six-

ISRAEL 229

ties, with an accent from Eastern Europe, maybe Poland, finally stood
up and said approximately the following: “Look, its just another con¬
ference put on by the Amerikans like all the others. They have them like
clockwork. They use innocents like these” — pointing to Phyllis and
me — “who don’t know any better.” Everyone laughed, especially us. I
hadn’t been called an innocent in a long time, or been perceived as one
either. But she was right. Israel brought me to my knees. Innocent was
right. Here’s what compromised my innocence, such as it was.

1 THE LAW OF RETURN

Jewish women attended the establishment conference from many coun¬
tries, including Argentina, New Zealand, India, Brazil, Belgium, South
Africa, and the United States. Each woman had more right to be there
than any Palestinian woman born there, or whose mother was born
there, or whose mother’s mother was born there. I found this morally
unbearable. My own visceral recognition was simple: I don’t have a right
to this right.

The Law of Return says that any Jew entering the country can imme¬
diately become a citizen; no Jew can be turned away. This law is the
basis for the Jewish state, its basic principle of identity and purpose. Or¬
thodox religious parties, with a hefty share of the vote in recent elec¬
tions, wanted the definition of “Jewish” narrowed to exclude converts to
Judaism not converted by Orthodox rabbis, according to Orthodox pre¬
cepts. Women at the establishment conference were mobilized to
demonstrate against this change in the Law of Return. The logic used to
mobilize the women went as follows: “The Right is doing this. The
Right is bad. Anything the Right wants is bad for women. Therefore,
we, feminists, must oppose this change in the Law of Return.” Fight the
Right. In your heart you know the fight is for the sake of women, but
don’t tell anyone else: not Shamir, not the Orthodox rabbis, not the
press; but especially not the Amerikan Jewish boys who are sponsoring
your conference, who are in Israel right then and there to lobby Shamir
and to keep an eye on the girls. Fight the Right. Find an issue important

230 LIFE AND DEATH

to Jewish men and show up as the womens auxiliary. Make them proud.
And don’t offend them or upset them by making them stand with
you — if they want you there — for the rights of women.

Protesting the change in the Law of Return was presented at the es¬
tablishment conference as “taking a first step” against the power of the
Orthodox rabbis. Because the power of these men over the lives of Jewish
women in Israel is already vast and malignant, “taking a first step” against
them — without mentioning any of the ways in which they are already
tyrants over women — wasn’t just inadequate; it was shameful. We
needed to take a real step. In Israel, Jewish women are basically — in real¬
ity, in everyday life — governed by Old Testament law. So much for
equality of the sexes. The Orthodox rabbis make most of the legal deci¬
sions that have a direct impact on the status of women and the quality of
womens lives. They have the final say on all issues of “personal status,”
which feminists will recognize as the famous private sphere in which
civilly subordinate women are traditionally imprisoned. The Orthodox
rabbis decide questions of marriage, adultery, divorce, birth, death, legit¬
imacy; what rape is; and whether abortion, battery, and rape in marriage
are legal or illegal. At the protest, feminists did not mention women.

How did Israel get this way — how did these Orthodox rabbis get the
power over women that they have? How do we dislodge them, get them
off women? Why isn’t there a body of civil law superseding the power of
religious law that gives women real, indisputable rights of equality and
self-determination in this country that we all helped build? I’m forty-
four; Israel is forty-two; how the hell did this happen? What are we
going to do about it now? How did Jewish feminists manage not to
“take a first step” until the end of 1988 — and then not mention
women? The first step didn’t amount to a feminist crawl.

2 THE CONDITION OF JEWISH WOMEN IN ISRAEL IS ABJECT

Where I live things aren’t too good for women. It’s not unlike Crystal
Night all year long given the rape and battery statistics — which are a
pale shadow of the truth — the incest, the pornography, the serial mur-

ISRAEL 231

ders, the sheer savagery of the violence against women. But Israel is
shattering. Sisters: we have been building a country in which women are
dog shit, something you scrape off the bottom of your shoe. We, the
“Jewish feminists.” We who only push as far as the Jewish men here will
allow. If feminism is serious, it fights sex hierarchy and male power and
men don’t get to stand on top of you, singly or in clusters, for forever
and a day. And you don’t help them build a country in which women’s
status gets lower and lower as the men get bigger and bigger — the men
there and the men here. From what I saw and heard and learned, we
have helped to build a living hell for women, a nice Jewish hell. Isn’t it
the same everywhere? Well, “everywhere” isn’t younger than I am;
“everywhere” didn’t start out with the equality of the sexes as a premise.
The low status of women in Israel is not unique but we are uniquely re¬
sponsible for it. I felt disgraced by the way women are treated in Israel,
disgraced and dishonored. I remembered my Hebrew school principal,
the Holocaust survivor, who said I had to be a Jew first, an Amerikan
second, and a citizen of the world, a human being last, or I would have
the blood of Jews on my hands. I’ve kept quiet a long time about Israel
so as not to have the blood of Jews on my hands. It turns out that I am
a woman first, second, and last — they are the same; and I find I do have
the blood of Jews on my hands — the blood of Jewish women in Israel.

Divorce and Battery

In Israel, there are separate religious courts that are Christian, Muslim,
Druze, and Jewish. Essentially, women from each group are subject to
the authority of the most ancient systems of religious misogyny.

In 1953 a law was passed bringing all Jews under the jurisdiction of
the religious courts for everything having to do with “personal status.”
In the religious courts, women, along with children, the mentally defi¬
cient, the insane, and convicted criminals, cannot testify. A woman can¬
not be a witness or, needless to say, a judge. A woman cannot sign a doc¬
ument. This could be an obstacle to equality.

Under Jewish law, the husband is the master; the woman belongs to
him, what with being one of his ribs to begin with; her duty is to have

232 LIFE AND DHATH

children — preferably with plenty of physical pain; well, you remember
the Old Testament. You’ve read the Book. You’ve seen the movie. What
you haven’t done is live it. In Israel, Jewish women do.

The husband has the sole right to grant a divorce; it is an unim¬
peachable right. A woman has no such right and no recourse. She has to
live with an adulterous husband until he throws her out (after which her
prospects aren’t too good); if she commits adultery, he can just get rid of
her (after which her prospects are worse). She has to live with a batterer
until he’s done with her. If she leaves, she will be homeless, poor, stig¬
matized, displaced, an outcast, in internal exile in the Promised Land. If
she leaves without formal permission from the religious courts, she can
be judged a “rebellious wife,” an actual legal category of women in Israel
without, of course, any male analogue. A rebellious wife will lose cus¬
tody of her children and any rights to financial support. There are an es¬
timated 10,000 agunot — “chained women” — whose husbands will not
grant them divorces. Some are prisoners; some are fugitives; none have
basic rights of citizenship or personhood.

No one knows the extent of the battery. Sisterhood Is Global says that
in 1978 there were approximately 60,000 reported cases of wife-beat¬
ing; only two men went to prison. In 1981 I talked with Marcia Freed¬
man, a former member of the Israeli parliament and a founder of the
first battered-women’s shelter in Israel, which I visited in Haifa. At that
time, she thought wife-beating in Israel occurred with ten times the sta¬
tistical frequency we had here. Recent hearings in parliament concluded
that 100,000 women were being beaten each year in their own homes.

Marcia Freedman was in Haifa when I was. I saw only some of what
she and other feminists had accomplished in Israel and against what
odds. There are now five shelters in Israel. The shelter in Haifa is a big
building on a city street. It looks like the other buildings. The streets are
full of men. The door is locked. Once inside, you climb up several flights
of steps to come upon a great iron gate inside the building, a gate you
might find in a maximum-security prison for men. It is locked all the
time. It is the only real defense against battering men. Once the iron gate
is unlocked, you see women and children; big, clean, bare common

ISRAEL 233

rooms; small, immaculate rooms in which women and their children
live; an office; a lounge; drawings by the children who live there — color¬
ful, often violent; and on the top floor a school, the children Palestinian
and Israeli, tiny, young, perfect, beautiful. This shelter is one of the few
places in Israel where Arab and Jewish children are educated together.
Their mothers live together. Behind the great iron bars, where women
are voluntarily locked in to stay alive, there is a living model of Palestin-
ian-Israeli cooperation: behind the iron bars that keep out the violent
men — Jewish and Arab. Feminists have managed to get housing subsi¬
dies for women who have permission to live outside the marital home,
but the process of qualifying can take as long as a year. The women who
run the shelter try to relocate women fast — the space is needed for other
women — but some women stay as long as a year. At night the women
who run the shelter, by now professionals, go home; the battered women
stay, the great iron gate their lone protection. I kept asking what if —
what if he comes? The women can call the police; the police will come.
The cop on the beat is nice. He stops by sometimes. Sometimes they give
him a cup of coffee. But outside, not too long ago, a woman was beaten
to death by the husband she was escaping. The women inside aren’t
armed; the shelter isn’t armed; this in a country where the men are
armed. There isn’t any network of safe houses. The locations of the shel¬
ters are known. The women have to go out to find jobs and places to live.
Well, women get beaten — and beaten to death — here too, don’t they?
But the husband doesn’t get so much active help from the state — not to
mention the God of the Jews. And when a Jewish woman is given a di¬
vorce, she has to physically back out of her husband’s presence in the
court. It is an argument for being beaten to death.

A draft of Israel’s newly proposed Fundamental Human Rights
Law — a contemporary equivalent of our Bill of Rights — exempts mar¬
riage and divorce from all human rights guarantees.

Pornography

You have to see it to believe it and even seeing it might not help. I’ve
been sent it over the years by feminists in Israel — I had seen it — I didn’t

234 LIFE AND DEATH

really believe it. Unlike in the United States, pornography is not an in¬
dustry. You find it in mainstream magazines and advertising. It is mostly
about the Holocaust. In it, Jewish women are sexualized as Holocaust
victims for Jewish men to masturbate over. Well, would you believe it,
even if you saw it?

Israeli women call it “Holocaust pornography.” The themes are fire,
gas, trains, emaciation, death.

In the fashion layout, three women in swimsuits are posed as if they
are looking at and moving away from two men on motorcycles. The
motorcycles, black metal, are menacingly in the foreground moving to¬
ward the women. The women, fragile and defenseless in their near nu¬
dity, are in the background. Then the women, now dressed in scanty
underwear, are shown running from the men, with emphasis on thighs,
breasts thrust out, hips highlighted. Their faces look frightened and
frenzied. The men are physically grabbing them. Then the women, now
in new bathing suits, are sprawled on the ground, apparently dead, with
parts of their bodies severed from them and scattered around as trains
bear down on them. Even as you see a severed arm, a severed leg, the
trains coming toward them, the women are posed to accentuate the hips
and place of entry into the vaginal area.

Or a man is pouring gasoline into a womans face. Or she’s posed next
to a light fixture that looks like a shower head.

Or two women, ribs showing, in scanty underwear, are posed in front
of a stone wall, prisonlike, with a fire extinguisher on one side of them
and a blazing open oven on the other. Their body postures replicate the
body postures of naked concentration camp inmates in documentary
photographs.

Of course, there is also sadism without ethnicity, outside the trauma
of history — you think Jewish men can’t be regular good ol’ boys? The
cover of the magazine shows a naked woman spread out, legs open, with
visual emphasis on her big breasts. Nails are driven through her breasts.
Huge pliers are attached to one nipple. She is surrounded by hammers,
pliers, saws. She has what passes for an orgasmic expression on her face.

ISRAEL 235

The woman is real. The tools are drawn. The caption reads: Sex in the
Workshop.

The same magazine published all the visual violence described above.
Monitin is a left-liberal slick monthly for the intelligentsia and upper
class. It has high production and aesthetic values. Israel s most distin¬
guished writers and intellectuals publish in it. Judith Antonelli in The
Jewish Advocate reported that Monitin “contains the most sexually vio¬
lent images. Photos abound of women sprawled out upside-down as if
they have just been attacked.”

Or, in a magazine for women that is not unlike Ladies' Home Journal,
there is a photograph of a woman tied to a chair with heavy rope. Her
shirt is torn off her shoulders and upper chest but her arms are tied up
against her so that only the fleshy part of the upper breasts is exposed.
She is wearing pants — they are wet. A man, fully dressed, standing next
to her, is throwing beer in her face. In the United States, such pho¬
tographs of women are found in bondage magazines.

For purists, there is an Israeli pornography magazine. The issue I saw
had a front-page headline that read: ORGY AT YAD VASHEM. Yad Vashem
is the memorial in Jerusalem to the victims of the Holocaust. Under the
headline, there was a photograph of a man sexually entangled with sev¬
eral women.

What does this mean — other than that if you are a Jewish woman
you don’t run to Israel, you run from it?

I went to the Institute for the Study of Media and Family on Herzelia
Street in Haifa: an organization built to fight violence against women.
Working with the rape crisis center (and desperately fund-raising to stay
alive), the institute analyzes the content of media violence against
women; it exposes and fights the legitimacy pornography gets by being
incorporated into the mainstream.

There is outrage on the part of women at the Holocaust pornogra¬
phy — a deep, ongoing shock; but little understanding. For me, too. Hav¬
ing seen it here, having tried to absorb it, then seeing stacks of it at the in¬
stitute, I felt numb and upset. Here I had slides; in Israel I saw the whole

236 LIFE AND DEATH

magazines — the context in which the photographs were published. These
really were mainstream venues for violent pornography, with a prepon¬
derance of Holocaust pornography. That made it worse: more real, more
incomprehensible. A week later, I spoke in Tel Aviv about pornography to
an audience that was primarily feminist. One feminist suggested I had a
double standard: didn’t all men do this, not just Israeli men? I said no: in
the United States, Jewish men are not the consumers of Holocaust
pornography; black men aren’t the consumers of plantation pornography.
But now I’m not sure. Do I know that or have I just assumed it? Why do
Israeli men like this? Why do they do it? They are the ones who do it;
women aren’t even tokens in the upper echelons of media, advertising, or
publishing — nor are fugitive Nazis with new identities. I think feminists
in Israel must make this “why” an essential question. Either the answer
will tell us something new about the sexuality of men everywhere or it will
tell us something special about the sexuality of men who go from victim
to victimizer. How has the Holocaust been sexualized for Israeli men and
what does this have to do with sexualized violence against women in Is¬
rael; what does it have to do with this great, dynamic pushing of women
lower and lower? Are Jewish women going to be destroyed again by Nazis,
this time with Israeli men as their surrogates? Is the sexuality of Israeli
men shaped by the Holocaust? Does it make them come?

I don’t know if Israeli men are different from other men by virtue of
using the Holocaust against Jewish women, for sexual excitement. I do
know that the use of Holocaust sex is unbearably traumatic for Jewish
women, its place in the Israeli mainstream itself a form of sadism. I also
know that as long as the Holocaust pornography exists, only male Jews
are different from those pitiful creatures on the trains, in the camps.
Jewish women are the same. How, then, does Israel save us?

All the Other Good Things

Of course, Israel has all the other good things boys do to girls: rape, in¬
cest, prostitution. Sexual harassment in public places, on the streets, is
pervasive, aggressive, and sexually explicit. Every woman I talked with
who had come to Israel from some other place brought up her rage at

ISRAEL 237

being propositioned on the street, at bus stops, in taxis, by men who
wanted to fuck and said so. The men were Jewish and Arab. At the same
time, in Jerusalem, Orthodox men throw stones at women who don’t
have their arms covered. Palestinian boys who throw stones at Israeli sol¬
diers are shot with bullets, rubber-coated or not. Stone throwing at
women by Orthodox men is considered trivial, not real assault. Some¬
how, it’s their right. Well, what isn’t?

In Tel Aviv before my lecture, I talked with an Israeli soldier, maybe
nineteen, part of the occupying army in the West Bank. He was home
for Sabbath. His mother, a feminist, generously opened her home to
me. The mother and son were observant; the father was a secular liberal.
I was with the best friend of the mother, who had organized the lecture.
Both women were exceptionally gentle people, soft-spoken and giving.
Earlier, I had participated with about 400 women in a vigil in Jerusalem
against the occupation. For a year, feminists in Haifa, Jerusalem, and
Tel Aviv had held a vigil each week called Women in Black, women in
mourning for the duration of the occupation. The father and son were
outraged by the demonstrations. The father argued that the demonstra¬
tions had nothing to do with feminism. The son argued that the occu¬
pation had nothing to do with feminism.

I asked the son about something that had been described to me: Is¬
raeli soldiers go into Palestinian villages and spread garbage, broken
glass, rocks in the streets and make the women clean up the dangerous
rubble bare-handed, without tools. I thought the son would deny it or
say such a thing was an aberration. Instead, he argued that it had noth¬
ing to do with feminism. In arguing, he revealed that this kind of ag¬
gression is common; he had clearly seen it or done it many times. His
mothers head sank; she didn’t look up again until the end. What it had
to do with feminism, I said, was that it happened to women. He said
that was only because Arab men were cowards, they ran and hid. The
women, he said, were strong; they weren’t afraid, they stayed. What it
had to do with feminism, I said, was that every woman’s life, for a femi¬
nist, had the same high value. Feminism meant that the Arab woman’s
life was worth as much as his mother’s. Suppose the soldiers came here

238 LIFE AND DEATH

now, I said, and made your mother go out on the street, get down on
her knees, and clean up broken glass with her bare hands?

I said feminism also had to do with him; what kind of man he was or
was becoming, what hurting other people would do to him; how callous
or sadistic it would make him. He said, with perfect understanding: you
mean, it will be easier to rape?

He said the Arabs deserved being shot; they were throwing stones at
Israeli soldiers; I wasn’t there, I didn’t know, and what did it have to do
with feminism anyway? I said that Orthodox men were throwing stones
at women in Jerusalem because the women’s arms weren’t covered down
to the wrist. He said it was ridiculous to compare the two. I said the
only difference I could see was that the women didn’t carry rifles or have
any right to shoot the men. He said it wasn’t the same. I asked him to
tell me what the difference was. Wasn’t a stone a stone — for a woman
too? Weren’t we flesh; didn’t we bleed; couldn’t we be killed by a stone?
Were Israeli soldiers really more fragile than women with bare arms?
Okay, he said, you do have a right to shoot them; but then you have to
stand trial the same way we do if we kill Arabs. I said they didn’t have to
stand trial. His mother raised her head to say there were rules, strict
rules, for the soldiers, really there were, and she wasn’t ashamed of her
son. “We are not ashamed,” she said, imploring her husband, who said
nothing. “We are not ashamed of him.”

I remember the heat of the Jerusalem sun. Hundreds of women dressed
in black were massed on the sidewalks of a big public square in
Jerusalem. Women in Black began in Jerusalem at the same time as the
intifada, with seven women who held a silent vigil to show their resis¬
tance to the occupation. Now the hundreds of women who participate
each week in three cities are met with sexual derision and sometimes
stones. Because the demonstrations are women-only, they are con¬
frontational in two ways: these are Israelis who want peace with Pales¬
tinians; these are women who are standing on public ground. Women
held signs in Hebrew, Arabic, and English saying: END THE OCCUPATION.
An Arab vendor gave some of us, as many as he could reach, gifts of

ISRAEL 239

grapes and figs to help us fight the heat. Israeli men went by shouting
insults — men called out insults from passing cars — the traffic was
bumper to bumper, with the men trying to get home before Sabbath
eve, when Jerusalem shuts down. There were also men with signs who
screamed that the women were traitors and whores.

Along with most of the demonstrators, I had come from the post-
conference organized by the grassroots, secular feminists. The post-con¬
ference was chaired by Nabila Espanioli, a Palestinian woman who
spoke Hebrew, English, and Arabic. Palestinian women came out of the
audience to give first-person testimony about what the occupation was
doing to them. They especially spoke about the brutality of the Israeli
soldiers. They talked about being humiliated, being forcibly detained,
being trespassed on, being threatened. They spoke about themselves
and about women. For Palestinian women, the occupation is a police
state and the Israeli secret police are a constant danger; there is no “safe
space.” I already knew that I had Palestinian blood on my hands. What
I found out in Israel is that it isn't any easier to wash off than Jewish
blood — and that it is also female.

I had met Nabila my first night in Israel, in Haifa, at the home of an
Israeli woman who gave a wonderful welcoming party. It was a warm,
fragrant night. The small, beautiful apartment open to the night air was
filled with women from Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Haifa — feminists who fight
for women, against violence. It was Sabbath eve and there was a simple
feminist ceremony — a breaking of bread, one loaf, everyone together;
secular words of peace and hope. And then I found myself talking with
this Palestinian woman. She talked a mile a minute about pornography.
It was her field of study and she knew it inside out, recognized herself in
it, under it, violated by it. She told me it was the focus of her resistance
to both rape and sexualized racism. She, too, wanted freedom and it was
in her way. I thought: with this between us, who can pull us apart? We
see women with the same eyes.

In Israel, there are the occupied and the occupied: Palestinians and
women. In the Israel I saw, Palestinians will be freer sooner. I didn’t find
any of my trees.

THE U.S. HOLOCAUST
MEMORIAL MUSEUM

Is Memory Male ?

In early September 1 993 I went to the United States Holocaust Memo¬
rial Museum in Washington, D.C., to do research for a book on scape¬
goating, especially of Jews and women in anti-Semitism and woman hat¬
ing. In November I went back to the museum because Ms. asked me to
write about it. I consider myself not-a-civilian in the world of Holocaust
memory, no stranger. A survivor s knowledge of the womens camp and
killing center at Auschwitz-Birkenau was passed on to me by an aunt hav¬
ing flashbacks — graphic, detailed, of rapes, murders, tortures — when I
was ten, a child without intellectual defenses. In a tiny room in Camden,
New Jersey, I saw what she said was happening — what she was seeing — as
she reexperienced her captivity. I still see it. Many of my teachers in He¬
brew school were survivors, and they were different from everyone else.
In the 1950s, closer to the real events, they lived more there than here:
they shook, they cowered, they suffered — beyond understanding, in si¬
lence, without explanation. They lived in terror.

For me, the Shoahy the Hebrew word for 'annihilation,” is the root of
my resistance to the sadism of rape, the dehumanization of pornogra¬
phy. In my private heart, forever, rape began at Auschwitz; and a species
of pornography — sexualized anti-Semitic propaganda — was instrumen¬
tal in creating the hate. My adult heart knows that Julius Streicher, who

240

THE U S HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL MUSEUM 241

joined with Hitler in 1921, was executed at Nuremberg for his part in
the genocide of the Jews because he published the rabid, pornographic,
Jew-hating tabloid Der Stunner , which was used by the Nazi party, then
Hitlers regime, to fuel aggression against the Jews. Streicher was con¬
victed of committing a crime against humanity.

Inside, the museum building is purposefully uncomfortable to the
eye, to consciousness. Prisonlike elements are part of the design:
cold, institutional brick walls made colder by exposed steel girders; win¬
dows obscured by metal bars or grates or louvered slats. There is a visual
eloquence that does not let the mind drift, because the eye cannot find
anywhere not prison-inspired to land. The interior, developed by the ar¬
chitect to suggest physical elements of Auschwitz, is ruthless: it de¬
mands alertness and suggests both danger and oppression.

The permanent exhibition is on three floors of a five-story building.
One takes an elevator to the fourth floor: Nazi Assault, 1933-1939
(Hitlers ascendance and the German conquest of Europe). The third
floor is dedicated to illustrating and explicating the facts of the Final So¬
lution, 1940-1944; and the second floor is the Aftermath, 1945 to the
present.

Standing in line for an elevator, I am encouraged to take a card on
which is a photograph of a Holocaust victim, his name, his biography.
Other women fingering through the cards ask each other, where are the
women? Why aren’t there biographies of women? They express a muted
outrage — not wanting to call attention to themselves yet unable to ac¬
cept that among the hundreds of cards there are no women. A museum
employee (a woman) explains that the cards of women have all been
used. We are supposed to be able to pick a biography of someone like
ourselves and, with interactive computer technology, find out what hap¬
pened to our person at various stages of the exhibit. The card machines
were not in use (and have since been discontinued); but the absence of
womens lives from the biographies was part of an old program, a famil¬
iar invisibility and absence, a simple carelessness to get more cards
printed or a more malignant indifference.

242 LIFE AND DEATH

I went to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum with ques¬
tions about women. Where, how, in what numbers were women raped?
Where, how, in what numbers were women prostituted — the brothels
in forced labor and concentration camps, where were they, who were
the women, who used them? Where, how, in what numbers were
women used in medical experiments, and with what results? Who were
the inmates in Ravensbriick, a camp for women from many occupied
countries but that earlier in Hitler s reign held German political prison¬
ers, prostitutes, and lesbians — how did they get there, what happened
to them? What exactly was done to Jewish women at Auschwitz- Birke-
nau or to the Jewish women held at Bergen-Belsen in 1944? How did
the hatred of Jews and women intersect, not abstractly but on their bod¬
ies? How was the sadism against Jewish women organized, expressed?

There were no answers to my questions in the permanent exhibition s
story of the rise of Hitler or the genocide of the Jews or the mass mur¬
ders of the Poles, Gypsies (Roma), and other stigmatized groups; nor in
the “aftermath,” what happened in Europe when the Nazis were de¬
feated. Although there were films and photographs of women, often
naked, terribly brutalized, and there was first-person testimony by
women survivors, there was no explanation or narrative of their perse¬
cution as women; nor was there any coherent information in the com¬
puters in the Wexner Learning Center, intended to be an electronic en¬
cyclopedia of the Holocaust; nor in any side exhibits. (One temporary
exhibit, for children, is on the fate of a young Jewish boy. Another doc¬
uments the efforts of a brave male intellectual to rescue mostly male in¬
tellectuals from Nazi-dominated France. In both, the romance of male
significance mobilizes feelings and attention.)

I was given research materials that demonstrated the museums com¬
mitment to documenting the egregious persecution of homosexuals; in¬
cluded were biographies of eight gay men and one lesbian. The mu¬
seums first conference — held in December 1993 on “The Known, the
Unknown, the Disputed, and the Reexamined” — eliminated women al¬
together by disappearing the one lesbian. There were talks at the confer¬
ence on “Nazi Anti-Homosexual Policies and Their Consequences for

THE U S HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL MUSEUM 243

Homosexual Men” and “The Pink Triangle: Homosexuals as ‘Enemies
of the State.” There was scholarship on “The Black Experience in the
Holocaust Period”; but nothing on women — not on Jewish women or
Gypsy women or women political prisoners; not on female perpetrators,
SS volunteers, for instance, some of whom were convicted of war
crimes; not on Hitler’s social policies on women’s reproductive rights;
not on the relentless early suppression of the feminist movement in
Germany. Women were apparently neither known nor unknown, a
common enough condition but no less heartbreaking for that.

In the museum, the story of women is missing. Women are concep¬
tually invisible: in the design of the permanent exhibition, by which I
mean its purpose, its fundamental meaning; in its conception of the
Jewish people. Anti-Semites do not ignore the specific meaning or pres¬
ence of women, nor how to stigmatize or physically hurt women as
such, nor do those who commit genocide forget that to destroy a peo¬
ple, one must destroy the women. So how can this museum, dedicated
to memory, forget to say what happened to Jewish women? If this geno¬
cide is unique, then what happened to Jewish women was unique; at¬
tention must be paid. If not here, where?

Genocide is different from war. In a genocide, women and children
are primary targets, not accidental victims or occasional combatants.
This museum, governed in its narrative choices by a courteous; inclu¬
sive politics of sensitivity to ethnic and political persecution, leaves out
the story of the Nazis’ hatred of women. The role of misogyny in the or¬
ganized sadism of these men must be articulated: because women’s lives
were destroyed by careful plan; and because that sadism continues to
contaminate and compromise what it means to be human. The Nazi in¬
vasion of the human body — the literal and metaphoric castration of
subjugated men, the specter of the sexualized, tortured, emaciated “Jew¬
ess,” mass plundered, mass murdered — is still the touchstone for an ap¬
parently depoliticized social sadism, a fetishized rapism that normalizes
sexual humiliation and mass dehumanization. Sex tourism is one con¬
temporary example — Thai women and children kept in brothels for the
use of male consumers from developed countries.

244 LIFE AND DEATH

This is what it means to pay attention to the sadism of the Nazis in the
context of the Holocaust museum. Germans with disabilities were the
first victims of secret, systematic murder — from October 1939 to August
1941 at psychiatric clinics. Groups of fifteen to twenty would be gassed in
carbon monoxide chambers. In the permanent exhibition, there is a pho¬
tograph of children being killed by lethal injection, their awful steel beds,
the restraints. Behind this photo is another — smoke comes out of the
chimney of Hartheim, a storybooklike castle near Linz, one of the clinics.

There is a photo of a naked girl, probably adolescent, “mentally handi¬
capped,” taken before she was killed. She is standing up, facing the cam¬
era, full-frontal, but she does not have the strength to stand on her own —
her rib cage is all bones — so a nurse in a conventional white uniform holds
her up by force; the pain on the girls face is horrible. The photograph it¬
self is Nazi child pornography — no breasts, no hips, not enough food for
that, no paint or makeup, just a naked body and pure suffering; child
pornography for real sadists, those who do not want their victims to smile.
And there is a photo of an eight-year-old boy, also “mentally retarded,”
also naked, also full-frontal, this too child pornography Nazi-style, the
camera complicit in the torturers pride, his monument to memory.

Concerning disability, so-called Aryans turned in their own, not a
dreaded racial “other.” This was the first place where murder could hide
behind doctors who would legitimize it. I heard a woman say, “It makes
you wonder about Dr. Kevorkian.” Yes, it does; and also about oneself —
how complicit am I in devaluing those with disabilities, how much fear
and prejudice are part of that complicity? I asked myself a lot of hard
questions. I was able to ask them because the museum told the story.
Those who don’t see that pornography is, at its core, the appropriation of
another person’s body, identity, life might also begin to have questions.

The museum uses words, photographs, documents, films, and arti¬
facts to create a discourse vivid with detail. Archival film and pho¬
tographs from the period have been transferred to videotape for display.
Some exhibits feature photographs mounted on walls. There are more
than 10,000 artifacts, ranging from concentration camp uniforms to
leaflets confiscated by the Nazis to children’s drawings and paintings

THE U S. HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL MUSEUM 245

made during the years 1932-1944. The artifacts are startling, often
beautiful. In telling the story of how the Nazis persecuted and murdered
the Gypsies, there is a wagon, with a violin. “Yeah, this is the kind of
wagon I saw going along the Danube in 1935,” said a man behind me.
The violin belonged to Miodrag Djordjevic-Tukalia, a Roma musician
executed by the Germans in October 1941. Each time a name is at-
tached to an artifact, one is made to remember that everything hap¬
pened to someone. It is as hard to remember the individuality of the
victims as it is to take in the mass nature of the slaughter.

There are clothes and ornaments that belonged to Roma women;
photographs of Roma prisoners being deported to Poland; and a film of
Roma children used in so-called racial research. They are clothed and
still vibrant, many smiling. Almost all of the Gypsy children at
Auschwitz were killed.

Approaching the concentration camp area, I stop thinking. None of
it is unfamiliar to me; but here is a real boxcar used to transport Jews, a
real barrack from Auschwitz-Birkenau. Film is not easier. There are
films of the mass killings by mobile killing squads: a line of naked
women standing in front of an already-dug mass grave, naked women
shot, falling, piled on top of each other, ravines filled with misshapen
bodies. Months later, this will be what I wish I had not seen.

Before one enters the boxcar, there are artifacts from the Warsaw
Ghetto uprising, Passover 1943: a 1929 Mauser rifle, fuses for the two
unused Molotov cocktails, two 75mm artillery shells, a pistol. Near the
boxcar, to its side, is a workbench that concealed a hiding place for Pol¬
ish Jews in the house of Stefan Petri near Warsaw; a handcart used to
transport heavy loads and dead bodies in the ghetto; a manhole cover,
from Warsaw, because Jews hid in the sewers.

There is a wall of photographs of Jews and Gypsies being deported,
from internment camps and ghettos to concentration camps and killing
centers; still photos of the trains that transported them, all preface to
the actual boxcar. Now one must choose to walk through it or around
it. The boxcar is set up this way so that Holocaust survivors do not have
to walk through it.

246 LIFE AND DEATH

The freight car is clean now. I wonder if they had to scrub it out. It is
smaller than I could have imagined. It is dark inside. There is nowhere
to sit. Aunts and uncles and cousins of mine were here.

There is a wrought-iron gate to a camp, with its wrought-iron arch,
Arbeit Macht Frei (“Freedom Through Labor”). In front of it are piles of
things taken from the victims: scissors, can openers, strainers, graters,
mirrors, toothbrushes, razors, clothes, hangers, hairbrushes, shoe
brushes, knives, forks, spoons; and a photo of confiscated suitcases, duf¬
fel bags, prayer shawls, canes, leg braces, and artificial limbs. One walks
under the arch — through the gate — to a real barrack from Auschwitz-
Birkenau, one of the more than 200. This barrack held Jews from
Theresienstadt Ghetto in Czechoslovakia.

There are benches to sit on, before going in. I sit. The bench is peace¬
ful, the floor a hard, smooth, shiny stone surface with lovely pastels in it.
Then I see the identification of the very floor under my feet: “A path
connecting Treblinka killing center with a nearby forced labor camp was
paved with the crushed remains of tombstones from Jewish cemeteries.
Below is a casting from a section of the path; Hebrew letters are visible in
several pieces.” Behind me there is sound: a glass-enclosed room, also
with benches, with photos of the physical plant at Auschwitz-Birkenau,
and from speakers in the floor come the voices of survivors of Auschwitz
saying what happened to them there, the small details of degradation,
narratives of humiliation, torture, and overwhelming loss. I walk on the
casting of the crushed tombstones from Treblinka into the Auschwitz-
Birkenau barrack where, had I been born earlier, I might have been with
the majority of my family on both sides. The bunks are wood, almost
slats — but then, they didn’t have to bear much weight, did they? I have
seen photos with the inmates stacked-in lying flat, but the eye plays a
trick: one thinks the bunks must have been bigger to hold so many.
There is no smell. This too must have been scrubbed down.

In the center of the barrack are cement walls about four feet high be¬
hind which are video displays of some of the medical experiments: pho¬
tos of dismembered bodies and of bodies and body parts preserved in
vats; films of skeletal boys used in medical experiments by Dr. Josef Men-

THE U.S. HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL MUSEUM 247

gele, known in Auschwitz as 4 the Angel of Death”; photos of skeletal girls
with bruises and open sores all over them. There is a Ravensbriick
woman; a single man at Dachau being used for experiments at extremes
of air pressure; a Gypsy man being injected with seawater right into his
heart; a Jewish dwarf who was subsequently stabbed to death to study his
bone structure; a Jewish woman used in sterilization experiments. The
low walls are supposed to conceal these videos from children.

There are bowls the prisoners ate from; Zyklon B canisters that were
used in Auschwitz-Birkenau and Majdanek; a scale model of Cremato¬
rium II at Auschwitz-Birkenau that shows how vast it was, and also
where the victims undressed, were gassed, were cremated.

You pass an exhibit on why the U.S. War Department, when bomb¬
ing military targets only five miles away, refused to bomb the train
tracks to Auschwitz to stop delivery of Jews. Though Jewish groups in
the U.S. repeatedly begged for this bombing. Assistant Secretary of War
John J. McCloy said it “would be of such doubtful efficacy that it would
not warrant the use of our resources.” You pass through a steel passage¬
way with a glass floor and the names of victims etched in glass panels on
the walls. You move into an area with brick walls and a steel floor. You
round a corner and there is a smell, strange and bad, thick and heavy, al¬
most suffocating. But you walk onward and then on each side of you
there are shoes, thousands of shoes: to your left and your right, the shoes
of the dead brought from Auschwitz to be on exhibit here. “We are the
shoes, we are the last witnesses,” says a poem by Yiddish poet Moses
Schulstein inscribed on a wall. It is almost unbearable. Then there is a
wall of photographs — just arms with tattooed numbers. The arms face a
wall with smaller photographs of emaciated prisoners.

Covering another wall there is a huge color photograph of the hair they
cut off the women at Auschwitz, a mountain of human hair; adjacent to
it, a black-and-white photo of this hair as it was baled for sale. Facing the
mountain of hair are photographs of Hungarian Jewish women with their
heads shorn. There is a casting of a table on which gold fillings were
removed from corpses; castings of crematorium ovens from Mauthausen;
a stretcher used to move bodies, a crematorium poker.

248 LIFE AND DEATH

When the war ended in 1945, two-thirds of Europe’s Jews had been
murdered. According to Deborah Dwork in Children With a Star , “a
mere 1 1 percent of European Jewish children alive in 1 939 survived the
war; one and a half million were killed.”

The museum honors the “Rescuers,” those who tried to save Jewish
lives: a whole village, Le Chambon-sur-Lignon, in France, that saved
5,000 refugees, including several thousand Jews (the Bible of its pastor,
Andre Trocm£, is on display); Raoul Wallenberg, a Swedish diplomat
who worked relentlessly to rescue the Jews of Budapest; an underground
Polish group code-named Zegota that provided money, false identity
papers, and hiding places for 4,000 Jews; and the Danes, who refused
en masse to collaborate with the Nazis. On display is a boat used by the
Danes to smuggle Jews to safety in Sweden. According to the museum,
“Among the Nazi-occupied countries, only Denmark rescued its Jews.”
The Danes raised over $600,000 to help the hunted escape; 7,220 Jews
were saved; nearly 500 were deported to Theresienstadt Ghetto — and
all but fifty-one survived.

And there are sadder stories of resistance. In Lidice, Czechoslovakia,
on May 27, 1942, Reinhard Heydrich, former chief of Reich security
police, an architect of the genocide, was shot (he died later). In retalia¬
tion, all the male villagers were murdered, the women sent to concen¬
tration camps, the children jailed in Lodz Ghetto or, if blond enough,
put in German homes. The two Czech resistance fighters who killed
Heydrich committed suicide rather than surrender. The Nazis, never
camera-shy, photographed the executions of the villagers.

There were thirty-two parachutists trained by the British in Palestine
and sent to Hungary and the Balkans as saboteurs. These fighters also
wanted to rescue Jews under German occupation. None was more com¬
mitted to this cause than the poet Hannah Senesh, a Zionist who emi¬
grated from Hungary to Palestine as a teen-ager. Commissioned as an
officer in the British army, she fought in Yugoslavia with the resistance.
On crossing the border into Hungary, Senesh was arrested by the Nazis
as an enemy soldier and jailed by the Gestapo in a military prison in Bu¬
dapest. The Nazis also jailed her mother, Catherine Senesh, who was

THE US. HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL MUSEUM 249

still living in Hungary, in the same prison, and threatened Hannah with
the torture and killing of her mother. But it was Hannah, who never
broke, whom they tortured and, after five months, executed on Novem¬
ber 7, 1944. Her last poem read in part: “I could have been twenty-
three next July;/I gambled on what mattered most, /The dice were cast. I
lost.” The museum displays her words but does not tell her story.

There was the White Rose, students identified by the museum as the
only German group to demonstrate and leaflet against the genocide of
the Jews. The leaders, Sophie and Hans Scholl, sister and brother, were
beheaded in 1943. (I keep a remembrance of them — an enamel white
rose raised on a background of black and gray beads — in front of the
German editions of my books.)

The permanent exhibition ends in an open amphitheater, on the
screen survivors, in good health, strong, fleshy, spirited, with stories of
agony and unexpected uplift. They speak with calm and authority, only
one with the constant nervous tremble I remember in survivors when I
was a child. This is a triumph: to have forged a way of telling. It is im¬
possible to overestimate how hard this must have been. The Nuremberg
trials, the historians, gave the survivors some ground on which to stand;
but they had to find both words and the will to speak. Many overcame
their shame — the internalized humiliation of anyone so debased, in
captivity. But many have not spoken, maybe because here too men have
established the standard for what can be said.

In the last two decades, feminists have learned how to talk with
raped, prostituted, and tortured women — what they need to be able to
speak, how to listen to them. This museum was in formation for the
second of those two decades, a ten-year period of research, investiga¬
tion, discovery — finding artifacts, deciding which to use and how,
which stories to tell and how. No use was made of feminist work on sex¬
ual abuse or bodily invasion and violation — neither the substance of
this knowledge nor the strategies used to create the safety in which
women can bear remembering. I know Holocaust survivors who have
not spoken out: women who were raped or sexually hurt. This museum
did not become a safe place for womens testimony about the sadism of

250 LIFE AND DEATH

sexualized assault. One rationale for building it was that soon the sur¬
vivors would pass on, and the burden of memory would be passed from
them to all the rest of us. But because the museum did not pay attention
to women as a distinct constituency with distinct experience, what
women cannot bear to remember will die with them; what happened
will die with them. This is a tragedy for Jews and for women, with mis¬
erable consequences for Jewish women. The conceptual invisibility of
Jewish women is the kind of erasure that is used — indefensibly, with a
prejudiced illogic of its own — to justify yet another generation of sec¬
ond-class status for women in Jewish communities and in Israel. The
torment of women in the Holocaust was not second-class, and it cannot
translate into second-class rights. Acknowledgment and respect are nec¬
essary; the conceptually invisible have neither.

Perhaps the threat of seeking this knowledge is that some of the sadism
is familiar, even familial; not confined to camps or genocide. Better to
avoid any crime against women that men who are not Nazis still commit.
Or perhaps women are conceptually invisible because of the continuing
and belligerent sexism of the men who run Jewish institutions now — but
the blinding arrogance of sexism has no place in this museum. I want the
suffering and endurance of women — Jewish or not Jewish, in Auschwitz
or Ravensbriick, Bergen-Belsen or Dachau, Majdanek or Sobibor — reck¬
oned with and honored: remembered. I want the rapes documented, the
brothels delineated, the summary murders of pregnant women discussed.
I want the medical experiments — excision of genitals, injections into the
uterus — explained, exposed. I want the humiliation rituals — forced
nakedness, cutting and shaving of hair, punishments of hundreds or thou¬
sands of women standing naked in the cold for twelve hours at a time —
articulated. I want the beatings, the whippings, the forced hard labor and
slave labor narrated. I need to know about those who resisted and those
who escaped; there were some. I need a heritage on the female side. I want
this museum changed so that remembrance is not male. I want to know
the story of women in the Holocaust.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I thank the editors who gave me an opportunity to write and publish
the essays and articles in this book, especially Allison Silver of the Los
Angeles Times and Robin Morgan during her tenure at Ms. as editor-in-
chief.

I thank Phyllis Chesler for getting me invited to the feminist confer¬
ence in Israel in 1988 that gave rise to “Israel: Whose Country Is It Any¬
way?” And I’m particularly indebted to Howard Zinn s A Peoples History
of the United States tot the quantitative information about the founding
fathers that I use in “Race, Sex, and Speech in Amerika”; so this is also
my chance to thank Gerry Spence for telling me to read it.

I am profoundly grateful to Nikki Craft, activist and provocateur ex¬
traordinaire, for setting up The Andrea Dworkin On-Line Library on
the Internet (http://www.igc.apc.org/womensnet/dworkin) and for her
support and friendship. She has a special place in my heart.

I thank Melissa Farley, who has consulted me on a host of research is¬
sues concerning prostitution and post-traumatic stress syndrome. I am
grateful to Evelina Giobbe, Susan Hunter, Ann Simonton, and Cookie
Teer for their political knowledge, hard work, and courage.

I thank Pat Butler, Twiss Butler, Merle Hoffman, Kathrin Scheerer,

251

252 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

and Jan Philipp Reemtsma for political and economic support and for
friendship and kindness.

I thank my buddies, especially Anne Simon, Gloria Steinem,
Gretchen Langheld, Elsa Dorfman, Sally Owen, Michael Moorcock,
Henk Jan Gortzak, and Catharine A. MacKinnon, for their help, con¬
versation, and political clarity. I thank Robin Morgan for the raucous
times we spend discussing literature.

I thank the organizers of conferences and lectures who invited me to
speak in these last years, and I thank the women I’ve met in cities and
towns throughout North America for teaching me so much.

I thank Elaine Markson, my friend and literary agent, for her en¬
durance, patience, commitment, and generosity. I thank my father,
Harry Dworkin, for his love and support. I thank John Stoltenberg for
his love and for our life together.

I thank my editor at The Free Press, Susan Arellano, for her commit¬
ment, which has stood the test of time, to publishing my work. I thank
her associate Norah Vincent for valuable suggestions with respect to this
book. And I thank Adam Bellow and Michael Jacobs of The Free Press
for the intellectual integrity that allowed them to recognize and publish
this and two future books.

INDEX

Abandonment, 31
Abolitionists, 77-78
Abortion:

right of, in the U.S., 167, 172
in China and India, 172
legislation, 184

Abortion clinic violence, 194, 195
Abrams, Ricki, 18—22
Academia, 139—140
Acceptance, 1 19
Accused, The , 1 1 6
Acquaintance rape, See Date rape
Acquittal of O.J. Simpson, 47-50
Affirmative rights, 183-185
African Americans:

and pornography, 128, 133
slavery of, 133, 158, 159, 179-181,
183, 186, 187, 189-193
and civil rights, 183—184
and free speech, 192—193
and poverty, 223

Aggression, 44, 121, 224, 238, 239
Agunot, 232

American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU),
92, 194

American Jewish Congress, 227
Amnesia, 116, 119, 180

Amnesty International, 70, 115-116
Amsterdam, 17, 21
Anal intercourse, 83
Anecdotal material, 88
Anthony, Susan B., 180
Antipornography activism, 69, 71-72,
81,90-95, 124-126, 134-138
Anti-Semitism, 130, 240, 243
Antoinette, Marie, 191
Antonelli, Judith, 235
Apartheid, 19

Appeals judge, and civil rights law in In¬
dianapolis, 92
Appeasement, 44
Arabs, 223-226, 233, 237-239
Arbeit Macht Frei (“Freedom Through
Labor”), 246

Arc d*X (Erickson), 190-191
Arendt, Hannah, 212
Arrests, mandatory, 43
Artaud, Antonin, 28
Asian women, 148

Assault, 44, 48, 63—66, 94, 201; See also
Battery; Murder; Rape; Sexual abuse
Athenian city-state, 196—197, 208
Attorney General’s Commission on
Pornography, 93

253

254 INDEX

Auschwitz, 4, 219, 240—242, 245—247,

250

Authority, 27-28
Autobiography, xiv

Baber, Asa, 213
Bachman, Ronet, 159w
Backlash (Faludi), 199
Baker, Russell, 8

“Battered Wife Survives, A” (Dworkin),
17

Battered Women (Martin), 158 n
Battered- womens shelters, 45, 47, 161,
172, 232-233
Battery, xiv

nonfiction essays on, 17-18
of Dworkin, 17-21, 41-43, 47,
52-53, 69-70, 165
and torture, 19, 69-70, 153, 134
of Lorena Bobbitt, 4 1
of Nicole Brown Simpson, 41-50
and surrender, 42
and counseling, 43
and mandatory arrests, 43
perpetrator as the problem, 43, 44
silence about, 45, 47, 167
and experts, 45-46, 158
and blame-the-victim mentality, 46,
153

and desperation, 46
and rape, 46, 164-165
and verbal markers, 46
and shame, 47, 1 56
and police, 48
and self-defense, 50
of Hedda Nussbaum, 5 1
and innocence, 51-52
and being believed, 52, 154, 158
and cowardice, 109—110
by intimates vs. strangers, 119,1 56,
159

and fighting back, 125
as “normal,” 152-153
reality of, 153
and captivity, 153-154
degree of force used in, 1 54
and sleep deprivation, 154—155

and fear of recrimination, 1 55
and blame, 1 56
and romance, 1 56-1 57
and ownership of women, 157,
159-161

and curfews, 1 57- 1 58

and freedom, 158, 166-167

and women’s movement, 158-159

running away from, 161-163

and masochism myth, 163—164

and human rights, 164

escape from, 165-166

and pornography, 1 66

and prostitution, 166— 167

and character of woman, 167

and equality, 167

political solution to, 167-168

and visibility, 168

“breaking the silence” on, 170

services for victims of, 171-172

and Violence Against Women Act,

206

in Israel, 232-233
Baudelaire, Charles, xiii, 16, 23, 28
“Beaver Hunt,” military version of, 75
Bedford Hills (New York State Prison),

86

Bellingham, Washington, 92
Bennington College, 24-26, 56-57
Bergen-Belsen, 219, 242, 250
Bestiality, 7 1 , 84
Bias, 29

Biden, Joseph R., 206
Bigotry, 75

Bill of Rights, 181-184, 189, 192
Black Panthers, 86

Blame-the-victim mentality, 46, 1 53,

171

Blood, 16

Bobbitt, John Wayne, 41
Bobbitt, Lorena, 41
Body searches, 26, 55-56
Bondage, 83

Bosnia- Herzegovina, xv, 73-76
Boundaries, 23, 120, 166

Boys-will-be-boys behavior, tolerance for,

75

INDEX 255

Branch Davidian compound, Waco,
Texas, 193

Brcko, Bosnia-Herzegovina, 74
“Breaking the silence,” 169-172
Brodie, Fawn, 186, 188, 189, 192
Brothel scene, in Ulysses , 25
Brown, Denise, 48
Brown, John, 78
Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 100
Brown University, 213
Brutality of marriage, 17
Bush, George, 206, 207
Butler decision (Canada), xvi
Byrd, Max, 191

Cambridge, Massachusetts, 92
Camcorders, of Serbian soldiers, 75
Camden, N.J., 3, 6-7
Camus, Albert, 23
Canada, 173, 174

Canadian Charter of Rights and Free¬
doms, 174

Canadian Mental Health Association, 115

Cancer, 35

Captivity, 153-154

Carnegie Institution, 35

Cartoons of Jews, 96

Catholics, 9

Central Cemetery (Vienna), 38

Chambers, Robert, 117

Character, 13, 14

Character question, the, 61

Chase- Riboud, Barbara, 190

Chastisement, 160

Cherry Hill, N.J., 8-9

Chesler, Phyllis, 228, 229

Child abuse, 79, 80, 86, 123, 143, 173

Child (Dworkin), 27

Child molestation, 22-23

Child pornography, 244

Children, male dominance over, 167

Children With a Star (Dwork), 248

China, women’s situation in, 172

Chinese footbinding, 20, 30, 121

Choice, 58, 122, 125, 151

Church, 111, 133

Ciscenje prostora , 73

Civilization, humanistic premises of, 16
Civil rights, 21

and Jim Crow laws, 1 83
and African Americans, 183-184
and federal government authority,
183-184

and women, 184-185
Civil Rights Act of 1964, 183
Civil rights law amendment (“the Ordi¬
nance”), 71, 90-95, 124-126,
134-138

Clausewitz, Karl von, 16
Coelho, Tony, 64—66
Cognitive capacity, 14
College years, of Dworkin, 24-26,

56-57

Columbia University, 35
“Comfort” women, 76
Commentary , 211
Community, 20
Concentration camps:

Nazi, 4, 97, 219, 240-242, 245-247,
250

Serbian, 73
Consciousness, 12
Consent, 209-210
Constitutional rights, 75
Constitution of the United States, 76, 8 1 ,
95, 133, 158, 181-185

framers of, 1 8 1 —1 82
Bill of Rights, 181-184, 189, 192
First Amendment, 182, 184, 193
Second Amendment, 182, 193
Fifteenth Amendment, 183, 184
Fourteenth Amendment, 183, 184
Thirteenth Amendment, 1 83
Fifth Amendment, 1 84
Fourth Amendment, 1 84
Ninth Amendment, 184
Third Amendment, 1 84
Control, by victim, 58
Counseling, 43
Counterculture, 20
Courts, 76, 92-93, 95, 110, 120, 137,
138, 184,231-232
Cowardice, 109—110, 147, 148
Crematorium II (Auschwitz), 247

256 INDEX

Criminal solicitation conviction of Jayne
Stamen, 85
Croatia, 73, 74

Cruelty, sexualization of, 129—132
Culture, xiv, 20
Curfews, 157-158

Dachau, 96, 247, 250
Daily News , 27
Danes, 248

Darden, Christopher A., 48
Date rape, 57, 107, 204, 207-208,
211-216

Davies, Robertson, xv
Deep Throat , 70, 80, 129
Degradation, 19, 28, 94
Dehumanization of women, 75, 89, 98,
126, 128, 129, 146-147, 170
De jure segregation, 183
Delaware Township, 8—9
Deming, Barbara, 3 1 , 32
Der Sturmer, 24 1
Desire, and force, 189, 203
Des Pres, Terrence, 89, 96-97
Dialectic of Sex, The (Firestone), 19
Diary of Nicole Brown Simpson, 46
Dirtiness of women, 144—145
Dirty books, 84
Dirty words, 146
Disability, 244
Discipline, 124
Discrimination, 29
Divorce, in Israel, 232, 233
Djordjevic-Tukalia, Miodrag, 245
Domestic discord, 44-45
“Domestic tragedy,” 108
Domestic violence, 42-45
“Don’t Suck. Bite” (womens movement
button), 71

Dostoevsky, Fyodor, 28

Double standard, 156, 193

Douglas, Frederick, 77-78, 88—89, 180

Drugs, 82, 86

Dwork, Deborah, 248

Dworkin, Andrea:

and first- person nonfiction writing,
xiii— xiv, 15—16

childhood of, 3-14, 23-24, 29-30,
217-221

and illness of mother, 4—5
and love of mother, 5
and obedience to mother, 5
nonconformity in childhood of, 5
relationship with mother, 5—8
and God, 6, 53
and love by mother, 6
independence of, 6
and fights with mother, 7
relationship with father, 10-1 1
use of imagination by, 1 1
first novel of, 11-12
use of words by, 11-12
use of language by, 11-13, 29
use of homoeroticism by, 1 2
on Mercy , 12—13, 17
on characters in writing, 13, 14
on empathy in writing, 14
on experience and writing, 14, 15,
28-29

on facts in writing, 14
on process of writing, 14—15
on Intercourse , 15-17
on Pornography: Men Possessing
Women, 15-17, 97-98
on being believed, 16, 28, 52, 68
and womens liberation, 17
brutality of marriage of, 17
leaves marriage, 17, 18
on Woman Hating \ 17, 18, 20—22, 27,
28, 87

nonfiction essays on battered women,
17-18

ex-husband of, 17—19, 21, 22, 28,
41-44, 47, 53, 70, 165
as battered wife, 17—21, 41-43, 47,
52-53, 69-70, 165
reactions to abuse of, 1 8-20, 53, 56
and Ricki Abrams, 1 8—22
and Vietnam War protests, 19, 26, 55,
68

leaves U.S., 19, 27
as prostitute, 22, 26, 69
escape of, 22
on suicide, 22

INDEX 257

rapes of, 22-23, 57, 68

sexual abuse of, 22-23, 26-27 , 53,

55- 59, 68-69
in high school, 24

at Bennington College, 24-26, 56-57
and Grace Paley, 26, 3 1 , 56, 68
loses ability to speak, 26, 68, 69-70
internal examination in jail, 26-27,

56- 59

in Greece, 27

change as goal in writing of, 28, 98
on resistance to women writing about
social issues, 28-29
on contribution to womens movement,
29

friendships in school, 29-30
and Barbara Deming, 31,32
and Muriel Rukeyser, 3 1 , 32
friendships in early adult life, 31—32
on audience of, 32-33
on survival as writer, 32-35
and Elaine Markson, 33, 34
and John Stoltenberg, 33-34
and death of Mark Dworkin (brother),
35-37

and media coverage of sexual abuse in
prison, 55-59
as pariah in publishing, 70
and civil rights law amendment
against pornography, 71, 90—95,
124-126, 134-138
on need to resist misogyny, 113-114
Norman Podhoretz on, 211
on planting trees in Israel, 217-220
on Jewish identity, 220—221
on need for Jewish state (as child),
221-222

and racism, 223-225
at feminist conference in Israel,

227-230

lectures in Tel Aviv, 236, 237
in Jerusalem, 237

at the Holocaust Memorial Museum,
Washington, D.C., 240—250
Dworkin, Harry (father):

and conflict between Andrea and
Sylvia, 5, 9

and illness of Sylvia, 5, 9
jobs of, 9
character of, 9-10
relationship with Andrea, 10-1 1
and college education of Andrea, 24-25
and arrest of Andrea, 27, 56
at burial of Mark, 38
and racism, 223
Dworkin, Mark (brother):
childhood of, 3-5, 7, 9, 10
death of, 35-37
buried at Central Cemetery, 38
Dworkin, Sylvia Spiegel (mother):
heart disease of, 4—5
relationship with Andrea, 5-8
fights with Andrea, 7
and arrest of Andrea, 27, 56
strength of, 29

Ejaculation:
reality of, 99

and pornography, 127-128
Ellis, Havelock, 202-203
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 180
Empathy, 14

“Endicott and the Red Cross”
(Hawthorne), 72
Equality, xvii, 167, 170, 182, 195
Erickson, Steve, 190-191
Ernst Boehringer Institute of Vienna, 35
Escape, 22, 53, 79—80, 165-166
Espanioli, Nabila, 239
Ethnic cleansing, 73
Exiles, raped women as, 74
Experience, 14, 15, 28-29
Experts, 45— 46, 158

Facts, 14
Fairness, 123
Fairstein, Linda, 117
Faludi, Susan, 199
Fantasies, 99

Fear of recrimination, 155
Fedayeen, 223

Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), 45
Federal power, 181, 183, 193
Femininity, loss of, 22

258 INDEX

Feminism:

purpose of, 113-114
academic premises of, 139, 140
Feminists, xv, 17, 37
Canadian, xvi

and exposure of wife-abuse, 43
and fight against pornography, 69,
71-72, 81, 123-124
accomplishments of, 105-106, 109
and battery, 164-165
and First Amendment absolutists,
179-180

and redefinition of rape, 211
Israeli, 227-228, 232, 233, 236, 237,
239

first conference in Israel of, 227—230
Fetishism, 127—128
Fiction, 14, 15

Fifteenth Amendment, 1 83, 1 84
Fifth Amendment, 1 84
Fights, 7
Films:

Deep Throat, 70, 80, 129
snuff, 70, 96
of rapes, 74, 76, 80
Firestone, Shulamith, 19
First Amendment, 182, 184, 193
First Amendment absolutists, 179—1 80,
213

First International Jewish Feminist Con¬
ference, 227-230

First-person nonfiction writing, xiii— xiv,
15

First-person stories of women brutalized
by pornography, 80-89
Flashbacks, 19
Force:

and desire, 189, 203
and rape, 203-204, 210-214
Foster, Jodie, 116

Fourteenth Amendment, 183, 184
Fourth Amendment, 1 84
Freedman, Marcia, 232
Freedom, 69, 81,93, 113, 118, 120, 121,
149, 158, 166-167, 170, 174, 191
Freedom from,” in Bill of Rights, 182,
193, 194

Free speech, xvi, 75, 81, 186

and First Amendment absolutists,
179-180

and Thomas Jefferson, 186-187, 192
exclusion of African Americans and
women from right of, 192—193
and liberals, 193-194
and pornography, 1 93- 1 95, 2 1 3
Freud, Sigmund, 203
Fuller, Margaret, 1 80
Fundamental Human Rights Law, pro¬
posed (Israel), 233

Gang rape, 73-76, 109, 116-117, 141,
145,213

Garrison, William Lloyd, 77—78
Gender, falseness of, 20
Gender bias, 135-136
Gender cleansing, 146
Gender prejudice, 164
Genet, Jean, 28

Genital mutilation of victims, 71

Genocide, xv, 73-76, 146, 241, 243, 248

Gilbert, Neil, 212

Gilman, Charlotte Perkins, 81

Ginsberg, Allen, 24

Global trafficking in women, 174, 175

God, 6, 53

Goebbels, Joseph, 96

Goldman, Ronald L., 50

Gone With the Wind, 157

Grassroots womens movement, xvi

Grbavica, Bosnia- Herzegovina, 74

Greenwich Village, 24

Griswold v. Connecticut ( 1 965), 1 84

Group sex, 83— 84

Guns, 82, 106, 109, 182, 193

Gypsies, 97, 242, 245, 247

Haifa, Israel, 232, 237
Hamlet (Shakespeare), 24
Harpers, 75, 213
Hart, Gary, xv, 60—62
Hate speech, 130-132
Hate words, 69
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 72
Hearsay, 45

INDEX 259

Hebrew, 219

Hemings, Betty, 187

Hemings, Madison, 191

Hemings, Sally, 187-192

Heydrich, Reinhard, 248

Hierarchy, 111, 150

High school years, of Dworkin, 24

Hill, Anita, 204-207,215

Hippies, 18-20

Hiring to kill, 86

History, 13, 20

Holocaust, 4, 97, 219-220, 240-250
Holocaust Memorial Museum, Washing¬
ton, D.C., See United States Holo¬
caust Memorial Museum, Washing¬
ton, D.C.

“Holocaust pornography,” 234— 236
Home, importance of, 161-163
Homelessness, 20, 31, 107, 123, 143,
162, 173

Homoeroticism, use of, 1 2
Homophobia, 120-121
Honor, 124
Hopelessness, 145
Houdini, Harry, 43
House Ethics Committee, 65
Housework, 198, 199
Human rights:

and crime of prostitution, 151
and battery, 164
of Palestinians, 224
Husbands rights, in Israel, 231-232
Hustler ■, 70, 116

Ice and Fire (Dworkin), 17, 34, 71

Imagination, 11, 14

Incest, 79, 80, 86, 123, 143, 173, 189

Indentured servants, 180-181

Independence, 6

India, 172

Indianapolis, Indiana, 92
Inferiority, 170
Injustice, xiv
Innocence, 51-52, 72
Institute for the Study of Media and
Family (Israel), 235
Intellect, 14

Intercourse, 16
anal, 83

synonyms for, 1 07
as political institution, 120
as possession of women, 120—121
as right of marriage, 159, 160, 170
and battery, 165
vs. rape, 204, 210
Intercourse (Dworkin), 15-17
Internal examination in jail, 26-27,
55-59

Intifada, 238
Intuition, 14

Ireland, Patricia, 194—195
Irving, John, 37, 67, 70-72
Isolation, killing of women in, 107
Israel, xvi, 217—239
planting trees in, 217-220
Dworkin on need for (as child),
221-222

and fedayeen, 223

aggression toward Palestinians in, 224,
238, 239

and imperialism, 225
and socialism, 226
and promise of equality of sexes,
226-227, 230, 231
first feminist conference in, 227-230
and Law of Return, 229-230
Orthodox rabbis’ power over women in,
230

abject condition of women in, 230-231
legal system in, 230—233
divorce in, 232, 233
battery in, 232-233
pornography in, 233-236
stoning of women in, 237, 238
occupation of West Bank, 237-239
Israel Women s Network, 227
Ito, Lance A., 44
Ivins, Molly, 1 95

James, Jesse, 43
“Jane Doe,” 107

Japanese soldiers during World War II, 76

Jefferson, Peter, 185, 187

Jefferson, Thomas, 158, 180, 185—193

260 INDEX

Jefferson (Byrd) ,191
Jefferson and Monticello (McLaughlin),
185

Jefferson in Paris , 189—190
Jerusalem, 237
Jewish Advocate, The , 235
Jewish identity, 220—221
Jews:

and Nazis, 96, 97, 1 18, 146, 240-250
planting of trees in memory of,
217-220

as immigrants to Amerika, 219
and need for Jewish state, 221-222
and prejudice against Arabs, 223-225
journalists, 224

Orthodox rabbis in Israel, 229, 230
and Law of Return, 229—230
Jim Crow laws, 183
Johns, 29, 30
Journalists, male:

and pornography, xv, 60-61
protection of male violence by, 65
Jewish, 224
Joyce, James, 25

Kevorkian, Jack, 244
Kibbutzim, 226
Kidnapped Africans, 181
King, Rodney G., 49
Kinsey, Alfred, 202-203

Lady Chatterleys Lover (Lawrence), 67
Language:
use of, 11-13, 29
loss of, 52

cannibalization of, 99
Law of Return, 229-230
Laws, 14; See also Legal system
civil rights amendment against

pornography, 71, 90-95, 124-126,
134-138
zoning, 134
rape, 171, 208-211
Jim Crow, 183
of Return, in Israel, 229-230
Lawyers, protection of pornography by,
67

Le Chambon-sur-Lignon, France, 248
Legal system:

and Mack, John, 63-66
and protection of pornography, 67-68,
81,92-93, 95, 120, 124, 133,
135-137

men’s control of women through,
110-111

and protection of batterers, 168
and rape prosecution, 171, 208—21 1
changes in recognition of perpetrators,
171

and protection of rapists, 207-210, 214
in Israel, 230—233
Lupine, Marc, 108-110, 114
Lesbians, 61, 228, 242
Letters From a War Zone (Dworkin), xiv,
17

“Letter to M.” ( Lavender Culture), 32

Levin, Jennifer, 117

Liberals:

and pornography, 70, 72, 194-195,
199

and free speech, 193—194
and Anita Hill hearings, 207
Liberation, politics of, 78—81
Liberty, equality of, xvii
Library of Congress, 1 86
Lidice, Czechoslovakia, 248
Lies, 4

Lindsay, John V., 27
Literature, 18
Live sex shows, 83
Living Theatre, 27

“Living with Andrea Dworkin” ( Lambda
Book Review ), 33
Lord of the Flies (Golding), 7
Lynching, 69

Mack, John, xv, 63-66
MacKinnon, Catharine A., xvi, 71, 90,
91, 126, 134-135, 137, 146, 150
Madison, James, 180, 182, 184, 185
Magere Brug, 1 8
Mailer, Norman, 203
Majdanek, 247, 250
Malcolm X, 50

INDEX 261

Male culture, xiv

Male dominance, 22, 28, 33, 65-66, 98,
99, 142, 144, 148-151, 167, 171,
172

Male sexuality, 202—216
and date rape, 204, 207-208,
211-216

and sexual harassment, 204-207,
215-216

Malina, Judith, 27
Mandatory arrests, 43
Mandelstam, Nadezha, 88—89
Manslaughter conviction, of Jayne Sta¬
men, 85

Marchiano, Linda, 70, 80
Marital privacy, 184
Marital rape, xv, 22, 41, 49, 160,
164-165, 174,210,211
Marjorie Momingstar , 7
Markson, Elaine, 33, 34
Marriage:

rape in, xv, 22, 41, 49, 160, 164-165,
174,210,211
brutality of, 17
pregnancy outside of, 30
rebellion of women in, 111
as ownership of womens bodies, 120,
133, 159-161

intercourse as right of, 159, 160, 170
Martin, Dell, 158«

Masada, 12-14

Masculinity, 109, 110, 203, 211

Masochism myth, 163-164

Mass murders in Montreal, xv, 105-1 14

Masturbation, 86

Mauthausen, 247

McCloy, John J., 247

McLaughlin, Jack, 185

Media:

rape trial coverage as “the third rape,”
55-59

and post-pornography politics, 60-62
and protection of male violence, 65
and Serbian pornography, 75
punishment of feminists by, 106
and mass murders in Montreal, 109,
112

reinforcement of battery by, 109-1 10
on passage of the Ordinance, 1 37
on date rape, 211-216
Israeli pornography, 234—236
Medical experiments, 246-247, 250
Meir, Golda, 227
Memory, 12, 14
Mengele, Josef, 246-247
Menstrual blood, 145
Mercy (Dworkin), 12-13, 17
Miami Herald, The , 60, 61
Miami Vice , 60
Miller, Henry, 28
Millett, Kate, 19

Minneapolis, Minnesota, 90, 92, 126,
134-135

Minneapolis City Council, 91, 134, 136
Misogyny, 112-114, 135—136, 187, 188,
243

Mobile killing squads, 245
Money exchange, 141-142
Monitin , 235
Monticello, 191

Montreal, mass murders in, xv, 105—1 14
Morgan, Robin, 19, 251, 252
Morrison, Norman, 27
Ms. , 75, 240
Murder:

attempted, xv

genocide, xv, 73-76, 146, 241, 243,
248

mass, in Montreal, xv, 105-1 14
and battery, 43
serial, 71, 122-123, 172
Serbian death camps, 73-76
of prostitutes, 107, 108, 146
of Jennifer Levin, 1 17
by intimates vs. strangers, 119, 152
epidemic of, 1 22
Muslims, gang rape of, 73, 75
Mutilation, 71, 94, 122
“Myth of the Miserable Working Woman,
The” (Barnett and Rivers), 199

Namelessness, 145
Narrator, of Mercy, 12, 13
National Cancer Institute, 35

262 INDEX

Nationalism, and Serbian genocidal
pornography, 74-75
National Organization for Women
(NOW), 194

National Review, 211,214,215

National Rifle Association (NRA), 193

Native Americans, 182

Nazis, 96, 97, 118, 146, 222, 240-250

NBC News, 55

Newton, Thandie, 190

New York City, N.Y., 9, 24, 162

New York City Planned Parenthood, 1 94

New York Post, 27, 56

New York Times, The, 27, 55-59, 68, 194

New York Times Book Review, The, 37—38

New York University, 26

Night line, 61

Ninth Amendment, 184

Nolte, Nick, 190

Nonconformity, 5

Notes on Burning Boyfriend (Dworkin), 27
Nuclear bomb, 3—4
Nuremberg trials, 249
Nussbaum, Hedda, xv, 17, 51-52, 54

Obedience, 5

Objectification, 121, 126-127, 129,

146, 166, 167, 170
Obscene letters, 57
Obscene phone calls, 57
Obscenity, 67, 124
Olson, Charles, 26

Ordinance, the, 71, 90—95, 124-126,
134-138
Orgasm, 97

Orthodox Jewish men, in Israel, 229,

237

Orthodox rabbis, in Israel, 229, 230
Our Blood (Dworkin), xiv, 1 7
Ownership of women, 120, 133, 157,
159-161, 197, 200

Paine, Tom, 1 86
Palestine, 12

Palestinians, 222, 224—226, 228, 229,
233, 237-239
Paley, Grace, 26, 31, 56, 68

Paradiso, 20
Parkside School, 3—4
Patriarchy, 29
PEN, 70
Penis, 22

People’s History of the United States, A
(Zinn), 251

Perpetrators, 171, 172, 175
Personal status, and religious courts in
Israel, 231-232
Photographs:

and violation of sexual privacy, 61-62
and immunization of rape and torture,
72

Pimps, 29, 120
Playboy, 213-216
Podhoretz, Norman, 211
Poles, mass murders of, 242
Police, 19, 48, 49, 52, 86, 108, 111, 153,
158, 162

Political oppression, 31
Political Right, 195
Political solution:

to prostitution, 149-150
to battery, 167-168
Political subordination, xvi
Political systems:
and violence, 63-66
based on deep silence, 169-170
and “breaking the silence,” 169—172
and organization of male dominance,

172

and womens movement, 172-173, 175

and prostitution, 173

trivialization of injuries and insults by,

173

and global trafficking in women, 174,
175

and marital rape prosecution, 174
and rights of women, 174-175
Politics:

post-pornography, 60—62
of liberation, 78-81
sexual, of killing women, 105-1 14
Pornography, 1 6, 20, 37, 59
and male journalists, xv, 60—61
and Butler decision (Canada), xvi

INDEX 263

and Pornography: Men Possessing
Women (Dworkin), 15-17, 97-99
and Woman Hating{ Dworkin), 21-22,
87

and public’s right to know, 60-62
and the character question, 61
legal system and protection of, 67-68,
81,92-93, 95, 120, 124, 133,
135-137

and experience of Dworkin, 69, 70
as technologized prostitution, 69
feminists’ fight against, 69, 71-72, 81,
123-124

and liberals, 70, 72, 193-194,
194-195, 199
dissenters as pariahs, 70—71
and sadism, 71, 88, 89, 97—100, 132
civil rights law amendment against,
71,90-95, 124-126, 134-138
Yugoslavian market in, 74
made by Serbian soldiers, 74-76
and dehumanization, 75, 89, 98, 126,
128, 129

and prostitution, 76
and rape, 76, 100, 123
escape from, 79-80
and politics of liberation, 79-81
first-person stories of women brutalized
by, 80-89

ridicule of dissent against, 88

defined, 94

and Jews, 97

and power, 98-100, 1 1 1

and male dominance, 99

reality of, 99, 128-129

and New Bedford gang rape, 1 1 6

as generator of violence, 1 1 9

and serial killers, 122-123

and objectification, 126— 127, 129

and will of women, 127, 135

and fetishism, 127—128

as sexualization of cruelty, 129—1 32

and hatred, 130-132

and racism, 130—132

as social control institution, 133-134

and battery, 166

“breaking the silence” on, 170

basic dogmas of, 171

crisis in U.S., 174

and free speech, 193-195, 213

and the political Right, 195

and Clarence Thomas, 205-207

and First Amendment absolutists, 213

in Israel, 233-236

Nazi, 244

Pornography: Men Possessing Women
(Dworkin), 15-17, 97-99
Post-pornography politics, 60—62
Post-traumatic stress syndrome, 1 9
Poverty, 3, 31, 123, 142-143, 158, 173,
198, 223

Power, 31,98-100, 111, 149-150, 155,
181, 183, 193
Predators, 147, 162
Pregnancy, 30
Prejudice, 223-225
“Preppie murder case, the,” 117
Press, the, See Media
Privacy, xv, 60-62, 107, 167, 184,
185-186, 207
Process of writing, 14—15
Prostitution, xiv, 16, 139-151; See also
Slavery

of Dworkin, 22, 26, 69

life on the streets, 30-31

and rape, 74, 173

and pornography, 76

and killing, 107, 108, 146

and cowardice of men, 110, 147, 148

and poverty, 132-143

and premises of academia, 139-140

reality of, 140—141

as abuse, 14 1

gang rape analogy, 141, 145

and money exchange, 141-142

and homelessness, 143

and incest, 143, 173

and dirtiness, 144-145

and hopelessness, 145

and namelessness, 145

and dirty words, 146

and dehumanization, 146-147

and male dominance, 148-151

political solution to, 149-150

264 INDEX

Prostitution (continued)
and battery, 166— 167
“breaking the silence” on, 170
and global trafficking in women, 174,
175

paradigm of, 1 96-202
Pubic area, shaving of, 85
Public Interest, The, 212
Public punishment, 72
Public s right to know, 60—61
Publishers, 34, 70
Punishment, 88, 106, 155, 160
Puritans, 29, 37, 67, 72

Racism, 107, 130-132, 134, 222-225
Radical feminism, 33
Randall, Willard Sterne, 185, 188
Randolph, Thomas Jefferson, 191
Rape, xiv, 16

by Serbians, xv, 73-76
genocidal, xv, 73-76
marital, xv, 22, 41, 49, 160, 164-165,
174,210,211
of Dworkin, 22-23, 57, 68
and battery, 46, 164—165
trial as “the second rape,” 55
media coverage as “the third rape,”
55-59

date, 57, 107, 204, 207-208, 211-216
and victim control, 58
jokes about, 68

genital mutilation as part of, 7 1
photographs as immunization of, 72
serial, 73, 173

gang, 73-76, 109, 116-117, 141,
145,213

and prostitution, 74, 173
films of, 74, 76, 80
and pornography, 76, 100, 123
by Japanese soldiers during World War
II, 76

shame of, 76

first-person stories of victims of,
80-86, 89

in New Bedford, 1 16—1 17
“breaking the silence” on, 170
by intimates vs. strangers, 171

changes in prosecution of, 171

law, 171, 208-211

services for victims of, 171-172

of Sally Hemings, 189-191

and force, 203-204, 210-214

vs. intercourse, 204, 210

and Violence Against Women Act, 206

as crime of theft, 208

redefinition of, 21 1, 213

and shoah, 240

Rape crisis centers, 118, 209, 212
Rapists, 29
age of, 123

retaliation against, 1 25
legal system and protection of,
207-210,214
Rastl, Eva, 35-37
Ravensbriick, 97, 242, 247, 250
Rebellion of women in marriage, 111
“Rebellious wife,” 232
Reconciliation, 44
Reedy. Reed{ 1971), 184
Religious courts, in Israel, 231-232
Reporters, See Journalists, male
“Rescuers,” 248
Resistance, 30, 31
Rice, Donna, 60-62
Ridicule of dissent against pornography,
88

Rights, equality of, xvii
Right-wing militias, 193
Rimbaud, Arthur, 23
Rivera Live, 44—45
Roev. Wade( 1973), 184,206-207
Rosie the Riveter, 199
Rukeyser, Muriel, 31, 32
Running away, 161-163
Russia, 3—4

Sade, D.A.F. de, 202-203
Sadism, 45, 62, 71, 88, 89, 96-100,

132, 224, 234, 236, 243, 244,
249-250
Safety, 44

St. Paul, Minnesota, 134

Sally Hemings (Chase- Riboud), 190

Sarajevo, Bosnia-Herzegovina, 74

INDEX 265

Sartre, Jean-Paul, 23

Scholl, Hans, 249

Scholl, Sophie, 249

Schulstein, Moses, 247

Seeker & Warburg, 34

Second Amendment, 182, 193

Second-class people, 164

“Second rape, the,” 55

Segregation, 19

Self defense, 86

Self-penetration, 127

Senate Judiciary Committee, 93, 205-207

Seneca Falls Convention (1848), 78

Senesh, Catherine, 248-249

Senesh, Hannah, 248-249

Serbian rape/death camps, xv, 73-76

Serial killers, 71, 122-123, 172

Serial rape, 73, 173

Sex, 20

Sex discrimination, 94, 124
Sex roles, 20
Sex tourism, 243

Sexual abuse, 30-31, 1 19, 174; See ako
Battery; Pornography; Prostitution;
Rape

of Dworkin, 22-23, 26—27, 53, 55-59,
68-69

of children, 79, 80, 86, 123, 143, 159
first-person stories of women brutal¬
ized by, 80-89

Sexual chattel, 108, 111, 121, 133, 159
Sexual exploitation, 170
Sexual harassment, 106, 121, 204-207,
215-216, 236-237
Sexual insults, 201
Sexual intercourse, See Intercourse
Sexuality:

as commodity, 142-143
male, See Male sexuality
Sexual liberation, 28
“Sexually liberated,” 82, 83
Sexual Politics (Millett), 19
Sexual politics of killing women, 105-1 14
Sexual privacy, xv, 60—62
Sexual slavery, 28, 73, 74, 173
Shadwell plantation, 185-187
Shalala, Donna, 43

Shame, 47, 76, 91, 156
Shoah , 240

Silence of women’s experience, xvi, 16
and battery, 45, 47, 167
“breaking” of, 169-172
Simpson, Nicole Brown, xiv-xv, 17,
41-50

Simpson, O.J., 41—44, 46-49

Simpson trial, 44—47

Singer, Isaac Bashevis, 202-203

Sisterhood Is Global 232

Sisterhood Is Powerful (Morgan, ed.), 19

Slavery, 179

by Serbians, 73, 74
of African Americans, 133, 158, 159,
179-181, 183, 186, 187, 189-193
trafficking in, 148, 173-175
of Native Americans, 182
Sleep deprivation, 154—155
Small, Pamela, xv, 63, 66
Smith, William Kennedy, 45, 55, 204,
207-208, 213, 215, 216
Snuff films, 70, 96
Sobibor, 250
Social pundits, 106—107
Social scientists, 45
Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr, 89
Speech:

hate, 130-132
right of. See Free speech
Stamen, Jayne, 85-87
Stanton, Elizabeth Cady, 78, 180
Stanton, Therese, 90, 95
State governments, 1 83, 1 84
Staulking, 44, 47, 48
Steinberg, Joel, 51
Steinberg, Lisa, 51, 53-54
Steinberg, Mitchell, 54
Steinem, Gloria, 215
Steiner, George, 99
Stoller, Robert, 203
Stoltenberg, John, 33-34, 37
Streets, life on, 30
Streicher, Julius, 240-241
Student Peace Union, 26
Subhuman, women as, xvi, 97
Submission, 98, 99, 131, 163

266 INDEX

Subordination of women, xvi, 94, 108,
109
Suck, 21
Suicide, 22
Surrender, 42
Survivors, 89, 91
Syphilis, 56

Take Back the Night rallies, xiii, 213
Tel Aviv, Israel, 236, 237
Terrorism, xv

Theresienstadt Ghetto, Czechoslovakia,
246, 248

Third Amendment, 1 84
“Third rape, the,” 55-59
Thirteenth Amendment, 183
Thomas, Clarence, 204—207, 215, 216
Thomas Jefferson: An Intimate Biography
(Brodie), 189

Thomas Jefferson (Randall), 185
Thoreau, Henry David, 1 80
Threats, 44
Tikkun , 211
Tirnanic, Bogdan, 74
Tolstoy, Leo, 202-203
Torture, 16, 69—73, 94, 165, 173
and battery, 19, 69-70, 153, 154
photographs and immunization of, 72
by Serbians, 73

first-person accounts of, 84, 86, 88-89
by Nazis, 96

of Palestinian prisoners, 224
Traffic in women, 71, 174, 175
“Trapped in a Pattern of Pain” (Dworkin),
17

Treason, 16
Treblinka, 246
Trevor-Roper, Hugh, 96
Trocmd, Andr£, 248
Tropic of Cancer (Miller), 67
Truth, Sojourner, 88-89, 180
Tubman, Harriet, 180
Twilight Zone , The, 1 1
Tyranny, 4, 169

Ulysses (Joyce), 25, 67
Underground railroad, 78

United Kingdom, 34
United Nations, 74
United Nations Convention on the
Elimination of All Forms of Dis¬
crimination Against Women, 71
United Nations Universal Declaration of
Human Rights, 71

United States Constitution, See Consti¬
tution of the United States
United States Holocaust Memorial Mu¬
seum, Washington, D.C., xvi,
240-250

United States Justice Department, 45,
158-159

United States Mission to the United Na¬
tions, 26

United States Supreme Court, 1 84
University of California at Davis, 35
Urination, 86

Vaginal lips, painting of, 126, 127
Vaginal penetration with objects, 85, 97
Verlaine, Jane, 32
Victim control, 58
Victorian, dismissal of books as, 29
Video of O .J. Simpson, 48
Vietnam War, 19, 26, 27, 55, 68
Violence, male, xv, xvi, 23, 30, 49; See
also Battery; Murder; Pornography;
Prostitution; Rape; Sexual abuse
Serbian rape/death camps, xv, 73-76
domestic, 42-45
and politicians, 63—66
protection of, 65-66
genital mutilation, 71
first-person stories of women brutal¬
ized by, 80—89

pornography as generator of, 119
Violence Against Women: A National
Crime Victimization Survey Report
(Bachman), 159 n
Violence Against Women Act, 206
Virginia constitution, 185
Virginia House of Burgesses, 1 80
Virginia State Penitentiary, 64
Voting rights, 1 84
Voyeurs, xv

INDEX 267

Wagner, Robert, 27
Wallenberg, Raoul, 248
Wall Street Journal , The , 2 1 2
War:

books as weapons in, 16
against women, 118-119
War of 1812, 186
War Resisters League, 26
Warrior mentality, 1 24
Warsaw Ghetto uprising, 245
Washington, George, 1 80
Washington Post, 64
Wayles, John, 185, 187, 189
Wayles, Martha, 187
Weimar Republic, 130
“What Battery Really Is” (Dworkin),

17

White Rose, 249
White women, 129, 133, 159
Whitman, Walt, xiii, 180
“Whore,” 74, 94, 97
Wiesel, Elie, 88-89
Wife-beating, See Battery
Will of women, 1 27, 1 35
Witches, persecution of, 20
Woman hating, xv, 16, 27, 49, 76,

112-113, 118, 123, 130-132, 134,
135, 145, 149

Woman Hating (Dworkin), 17, 18,
20-22, 27, 28, 87
Women Against Pornography, 86
Women in Black, 238-239
Women s House of Detention, 19,
26-27, 31, 32, 53, 55-59, 68-69
Women’s liberation, 17
Womens movement, 29, 158, 172-173,
175

Womens writing, xiii-xiv
Words:

use of, 11—12, 106
dirty, 146

Work-period, at Bennington College,
25-26

Workplace, 106, 121, 198-202
World According to Garp , The (Irving), 7 1
World Jewish Congress, 227
Wright, Jim, xv, 63-66

Yad Vashem, 235
Yugoslavia, 73

Zealots, 12
Zegota, 248
Zinn, Howard, 251
Zionism, 224
Zoning laws, 134

women's studies/sociology/current events

Praise for Andrea Dworkin

“Ufe and Death must be read by anyone who is serious about transforming the world
weVe got into a world that works for everyone, including women. Brilliant and coura¬
geous, Dworkin’s voice is filled with compassion, insight, and commitment. The power
of her work comes from her unabashed resolve to teu truths that people would much
rather ignore, disclaim, or deny. Dworkin writes from the heart. She takes responsibility
for what she knows and believes and challenges each of us to do the same.”

— Valerie Harper

“She is perhaps the most misrepresented writer in the Western world. Her earlier book,
Mercy, is a novel of inacceptable beauty. Her words bleed with love and her vision is
oracular. The oracle accuses on behalf of those who are systematically never listened to.
The accusations are neither academic nor theoretical: they come, in all their stridency,
from the music which was originally there in everybody. Within Dworkin’ s words, if you
really listen, you can still hear this music. And once you’ve heard it, you will want —
however uncomfortable it is — to put yourself beside her.”

— John Berger, author of To the Wedding

"Andrea Dworkin’s commitment to the liberation of women is absolute. Her analysis of
die crucial role that rape, prostitution, and pornography play in women’s oppression
is powerful, passionate, and political. Life ana Death should be read, reread, and passed
along to all who not only believe in freedom, but are willing to fight for it.”

—Jill Nelson, author of
Volunteer Slavery: My Authentic Negro Experience

“I wouldn’t miss anything Andrea Dworkin writes (and I frequently don’t agree with
her!) because no one else debates with such rigorous intelligence the most sensitive
and controversial issues that confront women today. We should all treat Andrea
Dworkin like a national treasure for caring enough to engage our passions — wherever
upon the political or social spectrum they may f3l.”

— Deirdre Bair, author of Simone De Beauvoir: A Biography

uLife and Death is the perfect collection in which to get to know Andrea Dworkin for
the first time, or to enjoy her mind for the millionth time. The insight and uncom¬
mon courage displayed on these pages reminds us why Dworkin is one of the most
effective and powerful voices for women today.”

—Tammy Bruce, president, Women’s Progress Alliance

Some things are more important than politics, and the English language leads the list.
Andrea s best essays display the kind of rigorous classical style and unequivocal stance that
I admire and strive for in my own work. 1 may not always agree with what she says, but I
love the way die says it.” — Florence King, author of

"The Misanthrope’s Corner” column for National Review

"Very well, gentlemen. You already know — do you not? — that Andrea Dworkin is a
hysterical and puritanical castrator. And you know of Mr. John Wayne Bobbitt. You
have also made Mr. John Mack into a household name. You haven’t? Why then, you
had best read on, if you value your most treasured possession.”

— Christopher Hitchens, columnist for

Vanity Fair and The Nation

$19.95 US / $23.50 CAN

ISBN q7fi-0-7432-3Lj2Lj-3
ISBN 0-7432-3b2b-2

5 1995

9 780743 236263